


built a ship in the morning but the hull’s worn through

by eneiryu



Series: constructed a world from the scars on our hands [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Forgiveness As a Choice And Other Lessons Learned on Road Trips, Home Decoration as a Courting Mechanism, M/M, Multi, Political Advisorship as An Occasional Bloodsport
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 03:55:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 74,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18612613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eneiryu/pseuds/eneiryu
Summary: Theo’s the one who idiotically decides to open his mouth to warn Scott and the others about the Chemult pack alpha’s temper, so, really—everything that happens after that is his own goddamn fault.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howooh boy. Um. Have 75,000 words of a _third_ way I envision Theo helping the McCall pack hunt down Monroe and come to terms with himself while he does it?
> 
> Credit to [Quintessenzza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quintessenzza/pseuds/Quintessenzza), who asked for a Thiam story dealing with Theo's and Scott's relationship, and probably was _not_ expecting this beast.
> 
> All the love as always to everyone who comments, kudos, or reblogs on Tumblr--it means the world to me. In a similar vein, now that this hoss is done, I'll be circling back to my outstanding prompts. But! If you have more, please--clearly, please--hit me up.

Theo is in the middle of rinsing off his grease-streaked plate in the McCall kitchen, attention more on the cut-throat _Mario Party_ game going on in the living room than on Scott, Argent, the Sheriff, and Derek having an unintentional-but-probably-inevitable strategy session about Monroe at the kitchen table, when he overhears Scott say _I guess we should go check out Chemult tomorrow, then,_ and Theo’s mouth opens before his better sense can clamp it shut.

“I wouldn’t,” Theo interjects unthinkingly, bending low as he does so to open the dishwasher and slot his plate inside.

When he straightens up, cursing—that particle effect sound from the living room was almost definitely Mason getting another star and pulling ahead of Theo, _damn it_ —Scott, Argent, the Sheriff, and Derek are all staring at him. Theo freezes, caught, and nearly folds his arms over his chest defensively before remembering that his hands are wet, and he forces himself to ignore the attention and reach for the hand towel draped over the oven handle instead. They’re still looking at him when he’s done with that, though, so Theo closes his eyes and sighs—mentally swearing at himself—and then opens them back up and meets the scrutiny head-on.

“What do you mean, ‘you wouldn’t?’” Argent presses, once he sees that Theo has resigned himself to the conversation.

“Chemult alpha’s got a nasty temper. An unknown pack shows up in his territory without asking and it’s going to turn into a bloodbath, your shining intentions or not,” Theo answers, and this time _does_ give into the urge to cross his arms over his chest, because that tidbit was going to raise all kinds of questions.

Questions like:

“How do you know that?” The Sheriff asks, eyes narrowing; Theo can practically see the wheels start turning in his head, all those law enforcement instincts snapping taut.

“Same way he’s always known anything, probably,” Stiles interrupts from where he’s now leaned against the entryway into the kitchen, the living room gone silent, “Lies and subterfuge.”

Stiles’ tone is bland and his expression when Theo looks at him is unbothered, nonchalant, but his scent is sour. Chest twisting involuntarily—apparently the unspoken moratorium on discussing Theo’s past that the McCall pack had adhered to for the past forty-eight hours is up—Theo deliberately keeps his own expression neutral and pulls his gaze away, though he reaches his senses out towards Derek, preemptively wary; Theo had quickly learned that Derek—consciously or not—has a default set of reactions towards things that upset Stiles, and Theo hadn’t yet figured out their exact boundaries. There’s nothing obvious in Derek’s scent and his heartbeat is steady, but his chair creaks as he shifts and resettles, and Theo curls his fingers against his biceps, fighting back the pressure at their tips; his claws wanting to lengthen.

Luckily Argent intervenes before anyone has to figure out how to respond to Stiles’ comment, “I know the Chemult pack alpha. He’s hot-headed, but he’s not unreasonable.”

“Your information is out of date,” Theo counters, because, hell; in for a penny, in for a pound, “Anthony Storo isn’t head of the Chemult pack anymore. His son Quentin is.”

Argent frowns, but he doesn’t argue; his decision to renounce hunting, while maybe admirable, had had consequences, and this is one of them. Looking away from him, Theo makes the mistake of looking at Liam, who’d abandoned the game in the living room along with Mason, Corey, Malia, and Lydia to come join the conversation, spreading out through the entryway and kitchen; Liam’s obviously trying to control his expression but he isn’t succeeding, his brow furrowed and his mouth hard as he looks straight at Theo. Theo jerks his gaze away from him, too, and deliberately cuts off the thread of his senses that goes arrowing out towards Liam automatically to try and read him.

“So what do we do instead?” Scott finally asks, breaking the increasingly-loaded silence, “If Monroe is in—Quentin, you said?—Quentin’s territory, we need to warn him _and_ we need to go after her.”

Theo exhales out harshly—Scott’s right—and thinks it over for a few seconds, then says, “Call his emissary and explain the situation. I can give you her number. And if you’re lucky, it might even be one of the rare times when he’s willing to listen to her.”

He’s silently praying that that’s going to be the end of it, but he’s not that lucky; the universe is not, maybe, that forgiving. Scott rubs the heel of his hand against the side of his head, clearly in the middle of some internal debate, and then he drops his hand and refocuses on Theo.

“Sounds like you know her,” He finally concludes, “Think you could call her, help make an introduction, explain what’s going on?”

It’s so typically a _Scott_ thing to do; immediately assume the best of a situation. Theo feels a rush of incredulous and _bitter_ amusement roll through his chest as he shakes his head and murmurs:

“That isn’t a good idea.”

“Why not?” Stiles interjects before Scott—brow furrowing in confusion—can, tone biting but more off-hand than serious, “You betray and murder a bunch of the Chemult pack, too?” Then the room goes silent, everyone catching the spasm of _something_ that Theo can’t stop from crossing his face, and Stiles continues, voice now thick with horrified disbelief, “Oh my god, you did.”

This time Theo _does_ clamp his jaw shut, and hard enough that he can feel his teeth creak. Stiles doesn’t have supernatural senses to catch the tangled mass of shame and regret and helpless, snarling defensiveness that rolls through Theo, but he doesn’t _need_ them, not when Scott’s face has gone blank, or Malia’s nostrils have flared angrily, or Derek’s considering stare has gone a little flatter, or—

Or Liam’s mouth has dropped open softly, his eyes above it going wide, his scent tanking as he realizes that Stiles’ had stumbled onto the truth.

_God damn it_ , Theo thinks, his fingers now digging painfully into his biceps. Taking a deep breath, he repeats carefully, “I’ll text you the Chemult emissary’s number. She’s smart, she’ll help if she can.”

He’s already pulling out his phone, all at once desperate to get it done, the faster to escape the sudden turn the night has taken, when Argent suddenly says, “No.”

Theo’s head snaps up and he looks at him, same as everyone else. Argent just meets his eyes steadily, expression cool, calm; calculating.

“No,” Argent repeats, “You’re going to make the call.”

“Chris—” Scott tries, but Argent cuts him off.

“If Theo is that much of a pariah to them, then the fact that we’re working with him will impress upon the Chemult emissary just how dire the situation is,” Argent explains, and Theo knows he’s screwed the second he sees understanding wash over Scott’s face.

“Fine,” Theo spits out, trying to regain some control over the situation, “ _Fine_. I’ll call her, tell her you’re coming, that you want to meet at a neutral place.”

But Argent just refocuses on him, eyes narrowed, and corrects, “You’ll tell her that _we’re_ coming.”

Theo stares at him, mouth dropping open in horror as he realizes what Argent’s implying, “ _No_.” He snarls, “No, absolutely not—”

“Theo—” Argent starts to say, but Theo just keeps talking over him.

“—they will _kill me_ ,” Theo finishes acidically, “I know none of you give a shit about that, but _I do_.”

He catches Liam flinching out of the corner of his eye, but ignores it to keep staring Argent down. It isn’t having much of an effect—Argent doesn’t so much as blink—and, worse, he can feel the way that the pressure at the tips of his fingers has given way, can feel the sharpness of his teeth against his tongue; the shift starting to slip out of his control. Beside Argent, Derek pushes his chair back a few, telling centimeters, and Theo feels every muscle in his back crank tight.

Scott immediately reaches out and slaps a restraining hand over Derek’s chest, holds his other hand out towards Theo, palm out and message clear; _calm down_ , “It’s fine, we’ll figure something else out.”

But Argent won’t let it go, “ _No_ , Scott. We need him.”

“Chris, I don’t—” Scott starts, clearly frustrated.

“We need to know what he knows,” Argent interrupts him forcefully, “Think about it, Scott: we would have gone blundering into the Chemult pack territory without second thought. Not to mention that we’re unlikely to actually _find_ Monroe in Chemult, which means we’ll have to keep looking in other places. Other _pack territories_.” Scott looks away, mouth tightening, but Argent continues mercilessly, “Like Theo said, my information is out-of-date. You’ve never had the time or the teacher to learn the various packs’ politics, and unless Derek paid close attention to his mother’s work in between high school chemistry and basketball practice, I’m guessing he doesn’t know, either.”

Derek grimaces, “Even if I had paid attention, my information wouldn’t be any less out-of-date than yours.”

“Right. But Theo knows,” Argent concludes, voice now a cajoling murmur. Then he stops, looks at Theo pointedly and asks, “Don’t you?,” clearly _daring_ him to lie.

Theo works his jaw, caught, but counters, “None of that explains why you need me to go with you. I can just as easily tell you whatever you need to know _now_.”

Scott looks ready to jump on that option, bleeding-heart peacemaker that he is, but this time it’s the Sheriff who shakes his head, “Volatile situations like the ones you’ll be walking into, in places you don’t know, with unfamiliar players—you need to be able to respond immediately. Theo’s knowledge isn’t going to be much help to you then, if he’s sitting in Beacon Hills twiddling his thumbs.”

Scott glances between him and Theo, clearly torn but just as clearly starting to be convinced, and Theo stares at him, feels his expression and chest start to twist with anger, “This is fucking unbelievable. So, what, either I agree to go with you and end up _slaughtered_ , or you, what? Kill me now instead?”

_That_ sends a ripple of shock throughout the room—minus Argent—and Theo has to scoff, bitterly incredulous; of _course_ none of them had thought the situation all the way through to the obvious end.

“Clearly I didn’t give you enough credit, Scott,” Theo comments viciously, “Who knew you had this cutthroat mercenary streak hidden away?”

Theo has just enough time to remember Malia’s presence and swear, jerking back as she lunges at him, eyes burning blue, before Liam manages to catch her around the waist and spin her away from him, yelling _Malia, don’t!_ as he does. Distantly grateful for Liam’s intervention, but his gratitude not enough to derail his mounting fury, Theo turns back to Scott and the others, several of them now half-stood from their chairs, their shoulders tight and their expressions tense.

“You know what makes this even more rich?” Theo snarls at them, “Some of you are only _alive_ because of me.”

“Some of us aren’t,” Corey suddenly counters, speaking up for the first time.

His voice isn’t loud and his tone isn’t sharp, but the bluntness almost makes it _worse_ ; Theo feels his words like a _blow_ , his anger immediately replaced by a hollowed-out sense of nausea as his eyes snap helplessly to Corey, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. Corey meets his stare implacably, mouth tight and jaw clenched, until Mason puts a comforting hand on his face and he turns towards Mason instead, closing his eyes. Theo has to rip his eyes away from the sight, bile rising in his throat and his fingers spasming involuntarily as his mind dredges up the sense memory of burying his claws in Josh’s stomach, in Tracy’s back.

No one seems to know what to do with the heavy silence that falls. Scott and the others at the table slowly lower themselves back into their seats—Argent’s hand drifting away from the butt of his holstered gun, Theo notes—and Malia pushes free of Liam’s restraining arms with a sharp _I’m fine_. For his part Theo stares sightlessly into the middle distance, his arms crossing back over his chest like they could hold in the sudden maelstrom of emotion tearing up his insides. A few more long, unbearable seconds tick by, and then the Sheriff sighs and leans over to pull a thick folder out of the work bag he’d brought with him from the station and set by his chair, drops it into the middle of the table with a loud _thunk_.

“I hadn’t decided what to do with this yet, but…” He starts, then trails off and leans back in his chair, gesturing at it.

“What is it?” Stiles asks, unsurprisingly the first to come forward and reach for it.

When the Sheriff responds, he isn’t looking at his son; he’s looking at Theo, “The file I started compiling on Theo after he attacked Scott last year.”

Theo makes an instinctual, aborted move towards the file before he stops himself, both because his conscious mind had immediately thought better of it and because Derek’s lips had peeled back from his suddenly-sharp teeth in warning, Stiles oblivious between them.  

“Wow, Theo. I knew you were a heartless sociopath, but I seriously underestim—” Stiles starts to comment bitingly as he opens the file and starts leafing through it, but a few pages in his voice dies and he stops, stares, and then looks back up at his father, expression tight with disbelief, “These are _all_ …?”

“Directly or indirectly,” The Sheriff agrees quietly, which means that the file contains all the Beast’s and Dread Doctors’ victims, too; Theo fights the urge to curl inward into himself and meets the Sheriff’s eyes head-on, though he can’t stop the way that pain causes his face to spasm into brief grimace.

“And I’m betting it doesn’t include the Chemult victims, or any of the others that I’m sure exist,” Argent adds, glancing at the Sheriff for confirmation; the Sheriff nods after a beat.

There’s a few beats of silence as Stiles returns to flipping through the file, a horrified sort of fascination bleeding onto his face. But it isn’t until Scott murmurs _can I…?_ and hovers a hand over it, Stiles immediately sliding it over to him, that Theo knows—instantly and without question—that _whatever_ Theo had thought he’d been doing in Beacon Hills in the slow peace that had started to settle over the town, that was over now. So he swallows past the way that that knowledge cracks open his ribs and forcefully gathers up all of it and shoves it down, away, into some dark corner of his mind, and meets the Sheriff’s gaze steadily.

“You’re the one who brought that here, you must have had a reason,” Theo points out neutrally, the statement half a prompt.

“I figured sooner or later we were going to have to have a conversation about what to do with you,” The Sheriff answers levelly.

Theo snorts, then replies bitterly, “Always the consummate Sheriff. Ready and waiting with your evidence and exhibits.”

Stiles wheels on Theo, clearly about to come to his father’s defense—and behind him, Malia looks ready to seize the excuse to take another run at him—when Liam suddenly speaks.

“Scott, look,” He starts, taking a half-step forward; his eyes flicker down to the file and back, and Theo can see the way his throat bobs as he swallows, “I—I’m not going to make excuses for Theo, and the things that he’s—that he’s done. But he was right, earlier. You and me would both be dead several times over if it wasn’t for him, and so would a lot of the rest of you.”

He glances around the others as he says this, then returns to Scott, who’s listening patiently, one hand resting on a glossy crime scene photo of the pit where the Dread Doctors had been hiding the Beast’s victims as Liam continues:

“He helped save everyone during the Wild Hunt and with the Anuk-ite and Monroe. He helped take Gabe’s pain, at the hospital, and he couldn’t do that before. All of that, it has to mean something, doesn’t it? It has to count for something.”

He looks over at Theo when he finishes, and Theo doubts he means to do it anymore than Theo means to look back at him, but it doesn’t matter: they both end up looking at each other, Theo wordlessly; Liam unreadably.

“Of course it does,” Lydia cuts in, and coming from anyone else her tone would be—gentle. But from Lydia it’s just matter-of-fact, “But it’s not a math equation, Liam. It doesn’t all cancel each other out.”

“No, I _know_ that—” Liam begins to argue, several of the others all chiming in, all talking over each other as the debate—the one that the Sheriff knew was coming, the one that he’d prepared for—starts to rage.

And Theo, who knows, distantly, that he should probably be trying to come to his own defense—Theo just lets it rage. In the absence of his anger—shorted out by Corey as it had been—and with the insidious threads of hope that had started to take root in his chest, his ribcage during the last two days ripped out and shoved deep into some dark corner of his mind, Theo feels, mostly, numb. A handful of feet away Malia is snapping something at a now-standing Scott, blue-eyed and fanged-mouth, while Stiles talks furiously at him, one hand on Scott’s shoulder. Argent, the Sheriff, and Derek are all arguing, and Corey is snarling _if there was any justice at all in the world, he’d still be in the goddamn ground_ at Liam, Mason in-between them with his hands on both of their chests.

But Theo barely registers any of it, just takes a few steps forward—the others too distracted to really notice—until he can get a hand on the file, abandoned on the table, and can slide it towards himself. Scott and Stiles had made it to the depths of the Dread Doctors’ victims, apparently, and Theo swallows, gets his fingers underneath the pages until he can flip back to the beginning.

And finds himself staring at his sister.

“If I do this,” Theo interrupts the ongoing argument several minutes later, his fingers blunt-tipped against the file but the picture, the folder cover on its other side covered with ten thin scratches, his mouth still coated with a thin film of sharp-tasting blood.

He looks up in the sudden, immediate silence at Scott, at Argent, at the Sheriff and the rest of the pack. At Liam, stood frozen with his hands up and palms-out, a pleading gesture if Theo has ever seen one.

“If I do this,” Theo repeats, more strongly this time, then continues, “If I go with you, if I help you with the packs—after it’s done, after you find Monroe, I get to walk away.”

He stops there and flicks his gaze between Scott, the Sheriff, and finally to Argent.

“I get to _walk away_ ,” Theo reiterates forcefully, eyes never leaving Argent’s this time, “You—all of you—you _let me_ walk away.”

Argent’s eyes narrow, Argent recognizing the same thing that Theo had; that deal-making was their best way out of this mess, unless the McCall pack was willing to try other, less pleasant means of negotiation. Theo stares back at Argent and can practically see the calculations spooling out behind his eyes, Argent trying to gauge how much he could get away with; trying to gauge just how far he could push Scott. Forcing his pulse steady and his posture relaxed, Theo ignores Scott, ignores the Sheriff and Derek and—and Liam, and holds Argent’s eyes, tips his chin up, just slightly, in his own dare.

“Noah?” Argent finally prompts, turning his head slightly towards the Sheriff, but his gaze never wavering from Theo’s.

The Sheriff blows out a huge breath—Theo catching the movement out of the corner of his eye—and says, “I can live with that.”

“So can I,” Scott states before Argent can ask him, though he turns his attention to Theo and adds, “If that’s what you really want.”

Theo nearly breaks his staring contest with Argent to look at Scott incredulously—if that’s what _Theo_ _really wants?_ Christ, how naive could Scott _get_ —but he doesn’t, the last and arguably most important answer yet to be given. Argent looks at him steadily for a few more long seconds, and then he nods, once, sharply.

“You help us with the other packs, and once we get Monroe—” Argent repeats the terms, with a slight, _critical_ tweak that Theo catches but doesn’t have time to do anything about, “—you get to walk away.”

The silence in the kitchen when he finishes speaking is thick, not a few people—including Liam, stood behind Scott and looking bowled-over and shell-shocked—holding their breath. Theo holds Argent’s gaze for a moment longer and then lets his own drop, straight down until he’s looking at the picture of his sister and the five thin clawmarks that he hadn’t been able to stop himself from scratching across its surface like the worst kind of metaphor.

“Then fine,” Theo says, his eyes on his sister’s, the only thing he can hear her heart beating steadily in his chest, “I’ll come with you, I’ll help. And when it’s done, I’m walking away.”

\---

An hour later, the last of the details of Theo’s and the McCall pack’s deal hammered out, Theo is opening his truck door and about to climb inside to go meet Derek at his building—the McCall pack giving Theo his own apartment for the duration of the hunt like some kind of consolation prize—when Argent suddenly appears and gets a hand on the door, pushes it back shut.

Theo has to fight back the instant surge of fury that burns through him—and the instant rise of the shift under his skin, his control pretty much shot—and glares at him, snarls, “What?”

Argent doesn’t so much as flinch, “Come with me. We’re going on a field trip.”

Theo looks at him incredulously and then barks out a sharp laugh, reaches again for his truck door as he spits out, “Fuck you. You already got what you wanted. Declare victory and go back to your empty house, Argent.”

He knows the last part is a massive mistake even as he says it, but it’s out before he can stop it, his particular skill-set—finding every soft spot, knowing exactly where to strike—seizing the chance to turn outward instead of inward. But his self-awareness doesn’t do shit for the way that Argent reaches back out and slams Theo’s door shut _again_ , his eyes now narrow and his mouth now hard; his composure showing just the slightest crack.

“That wasn’t a request, Theo,” Argent tells him lowly, and doesn’t even need to shift to draw attention to the butt of his holstered gun; Theo’s eyes flick down to it automatically.

Teeth grinding, Theo looks back up at him, “Where are we going?”

Argent leans back some, out of Theo’s space, and answers, “Deaton’s. He’s got something that will help ensure you stick to your end of the deal.”

Theo feels his own composure crack, his expression twisting with anger, “You’ve got to be—I already agreed to help!”

But Argent just smiles, the curl of it not going anywhere near his eyes, “You lie as often as you breathe, Theo, and possibly more easily. I’m not Scott. Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t already started thinking about ways to slip loose.”

And Theo, well. He can’t.

Argent huffs out a single, satisfied laugh at his silence and says, “My job is to protect this pack, and there was a time that meant protecting it from _you_. I’m not yet convinced that that isn’t still the case.”

Theo tries to smother his flinch but can’t; all he can do is deny Argent the satisfaction of hearing him try to defend himself as Argent pauses, waiting, and then continues when Theo doesn’t speak:

“You know a lot of things about this pack, Theo. A lot of very _valuable_ things. And you clearly know how to negotiate.”

He says the last part pointedly, and Theo has to clamp down on the sneer that wants to take his mouth; that battle already pretty firmly lost, he still can’t bring himself to give Argent any more ammunition.

“Look, Theo,” Argent tells him, “You want out? Come with me to Deaton’s and let me have my insurance. And then, starting tomorrow, turn that wasted brain of yours on helping us navigate the pack politics, find Monroe. Then you can go.”

He stops there, studies Theo appraisingly for a few beats before that same sharp, humorless smile twists his lips again and he adds:

“After all, you and I both know that it’s more than you deserve.”

Theo has to look away from him, the accusation burning, his hand instinctually, thoughtlessly seeking out his right jacket pocket and pressing there. He works his jaw for a few seconds, the muscles aching from how tight he’d had it clenched, and then he turns back to Argent, aware that his own surrender is written all over his face and just—unable to do anything about it.

“I’m supposed to meet Derek to get keys,” Theo informs him dully.

“I already told him you’re going to be late,” Argent answers dismissively, then sweeps an arm out towards his SUV, parked on the other side of the street.

The sign on the door at the animal clinic says _Closed_ , but it does about as much good as it’s ever done; Argent ignores it completely and shoulders open the door, holds it for Theo as Theo trails after him. The mountain ash gate is shut but Theo pushes it open thoughtlessly, only flinching and silently swearing at himself when he catches the edge of Argent’s smirk. Theo has to jerk his eyes back forward so that Argent doesn’t spot his helplessly flared eyes; chimera gold, instead of werewolf blue.

“I’d like to re-register my disagreement with this course of action,” Deaton informs them as Theo comes into the examination room, Argent on his heels; Deaton isn’t looking at either of them, his attention on the carefully laid-out spread of jars and instruments in front of him on the exam table.

“Noted,” Argent replies evenly, and gestures Theo to the other side of the table, across from Deaton.

Theo goes after the slightest hesitation, the futility of trying to resist _now_ blindingly obvious. Even if Argent hadn’t planted himself in front of the only exit, arms crossed, there’s nowhere for him to _go_. While neither Argent nor the Sheriff had come right out and _said_ what would happen if Theo tried to leave without either helping the McCall pack or meeting some kind of justice for his crimes, they hadn’t needed to; Theo had been perfectly capable of filling in the blanks himself. It’s why he’d made the deal he had, standing at the McCall kitchen table and facing down the entirety of the McCall pack.

Or, well.

One of the reasons; Theo presses his right hand against his jacket pocket and then looks up at Deaton, “What do I need to do?”

Deaton studies him for a moment and then sighs, picks up a strip of leather from the supplies laid out on the table, “Hold out one of your wrists, please.”

Theo gives him his left wrist; his non-dominant hand, the decision automatic, instinctual. Deaton’s eyes when Theo chances a look at them are knowing, and Theo has to bite back a grimace, drop his gaze down to the strip of leather instead. It’s maybe half an inch wide, the color a burnt sort of tawny and the front and back—the front becoming visible when Deaton starts to loop it around his wrist—etched with dark runes.

As Theo watches, Deaton holds the two ends of the bracelet—no fastener that Theo can see—together with one hand, and picks something up from the table with his other. It looks almost like a soldering iron, and Theo nearly jerks back before Argent murmurs his name warningly and Theo stills, mouth twisting in frustration. Deaton glances up at him, expression almost sympathetic, and then he looks back down at his work.

Deaton etches another rune into the leather with the tool, right over the two edges, and Theo stares in horrified fascination as the seam just—disappears.

Sighing, Deaton sets the tool down and leans back, “It’s done.”

“ _What’s_ done?” Theo demands before he can stop himself, right hand flying to his left wrist, his gaze jerking up from the seamless bracelet to Deaton and then to Argent as he snarls, “What the hell did you just do to me?”

“Tracking bracelet,” Argent answers easily, unperturbed by Theo’s hostility, “With the right spell and a map, anyone who knows those runes can find you anywhere.”

“You son of a bitch,” Theo breathes, the fingers of his right hand now wrapped around the leather wrapped around his wrist, his thumb searching for a seam that he knows isn’t there, “How the hell do I get it _off_?”

“You hold up your end of the deal,” Argent tells him mercilessly, “Then you and I come back here and Deaton removes it.”

Theo’s about to snarl something else, something vulgar and equally useless, when something about Argent’s wording catches his attention.

“‘You and I,’” He repeats carefully, his gaze flicking instinctually to Deaton, whose mouth tightens, “Scott doesn’t know about this.”

“Feel free to tell him if you think it’ll accomplish anything,” Argent offers, unconcerned, “You already know he’s not happy about the situation, but he does know that it’s necessary.”

_And he’d know this is necessary, too,_ Argent doesn’t say, but he doesn’t need to. Theo jerks his head away from Argent’s steady gaze, unable to stop another frustrated snarl from taking his mouth, his right hand still twisting and picking at the bracelet; he has to stop himself from growing a claw and _slicing_ at it, already certain it’d be less than useless.

“C’mon, Theo, you know the drill,” Argent reminds him, his posture out of the corner of Theo’s eye unmoved, and unmovable.

Theo keeps staring sightlessly out the examination room’s high windows, and then he drops his gaze back down to Argent—drops his right hand away from his left wrist, too—and replies bitterly, “I want out, I hold up my end of the deal.”

“And then you get to walk away,” Argent agrees, a subtle but perfectly detectable amount of emphasis on the ‘ _then_.’

\---

Theo doesn’t see the text until he’s already parked at Derek’s building, Argent having dropped him back off at his truck after their _field trip_ to the animal clinic. It’s Derek, saying _I gave your keys to Liam, apartment 302_. Theo nearly turns right back around once he’s read it—the single thought _I can’t do this right now_ burning instantly and viciously through his mind—but he has nowhere to go, for one thing, and for another: he leans his head against the wheel and takes his left hand off of it, twists his wrist back and forth and stares at the different runes on Argent’s bracelet, at the way that they flow seamlessly one into the next; an infinite, unbroken loop.

Then he grabs his single duffel bag—the sum total of all his worldly possessions—and gets out of his truck.

Liam is sitting on the apartment’s only piece of furniture—a beat-up old futon, left by the previous tenant and never picked up as promised, Derek too busy trying not to get killed to deal with it in the meantime—when Theo rolls open the unlocked door. He’s got his elbows braced on his knees, his fingers picking compulsively at each other between them, and he must be pretty deep in his own head because he jerks and nearly falls off the futon before rocketing to his feet when Theo opens the door. Almost immediately he has to turn back to the precariously stacked pile of linens sitting beside him as his spastic movements causes it to tip, Liam hurriedly steadying it before turning back towards Theo, face flaming and mouth twisting in a grimace.

Dropping his duffel inside the door, Theo reaches back with one hand to snag the door handle, roll it back shut as he asks, “What are you doing here?”

He’s almost surprised by how— _toneless_ his voice is, devoid even of the exhaustion he can feel weighing on his every limb. _But then again_ , he thinks—a part of himself still helplessly tuned to the unfamiliar chafe of the bracelet around his wrist—maybe it isn’t a surprise at all. Liam just winces and looks away, his hands jumping from his back pockets to crossed over his chest and then back to his pockets in a nervous series of movements.

Finally he gives up and drops them again, says, “Scott was going to bring you over some stuff, since—” He cuts himself off before he can say something like _since you were homeless until recently_ , though Theo hears it anyway, “I, um. I offered to do it instead.”

He tips his chin towards the stack of linens and—now that Theo’s looking for them—the bagged air mattress and plastic bag full of miscellaneous toiletries beside it. Theo stares at the supplies, a twist of surprised warmth flickering through him at the gesture, both Scott’s and Liam’s. It’s almost immediately smothered by a stronger surge of bitterness, though, and Theo swallows, tries to keep the latter off his face as he turns his attention back to Liam and nods in acknowledgement.

“Derek said he gave you my keys?” He prompts after a few tense and silent seconds; christ knows Liam would walk off with the things otherwise.

“Oh! Uh, right,” Liam exclaims, blinking and jerking some from where he’d been staring intently at Theo, knowingly or not; he twists some so that he can reach into his back right pocket, pull them out.

He tosses them over to Theo, who catches them effortlessly and concentrates on threading them onto his key-ring so that he doesn’t have to concentrate on Liam, who’s back to staring at him, the mess of thoughts obviously eating at him just all over his face. There’s no real way to avoid the conversation—and Theo is standing in front of the only exit—but there’s little else in the world that Theo would rather do less than walk further into the apartment, closer to Liam; it feels like a trap now, somehow, some obvious mistake that he’s spent the past week making over and over again, and is now being firmly punished for.

But the silence drags, and Liam doesn’t move or otherwise say anything, and finally Theo runs out of excuses and patience, “It’s late, Liam, you should—”

“Did you mean what you said before?” Liam interrupts, all in a furious rush; he looks shocked at himself once he’s done, like he’d maybe been trying to keep the words caged behind his teeth and they’d broken loose anyway. Theo stares at him, taken aback, Liam wide-eyed and returning his gaze, and then Liam licks his lips and looks away, clarifies, “About the Chemult pack killing you if you went with Scott and the others. Did you—did you mean that?”

And there it is, one of the things he’d rather do less than walk closer to Liam: answer his question. Theo sighs and closes his eyes, scrubs his hands over his face. That’s a mistake though, too; he feels the leather of his new bracelet drag against his skin and he has to stop, take a deep, calming breath. When he opens his eyes, Liam is back to staring at him, his expression blown-open as he—probably correctly—interprets Theo’s frustration and tries to figure out exactly what it means.

“Scott talked to the Chemult emissary,” Theo says instead of answering the question directly, since the answer is _yes_ , “She’s going to talk to the alpha and the others tonight, explain the situation.”

Liam’s expression twists, obviously unsatisfied as he points out mulishly, “That’s not an answer.”

Theo swallows back the swell of irritation he can feel rise in his throat, “Jesus, Liam, what do you want me to say? Yeah, Quentin at least is probably going to try and kill me.”

Liam frowns at him, more and more of his earlier discomfort seemingly disappearing underneath the weight of his more characteristic pigheadedness, “Then you shouldn’t go.”

Theo can’t help the disbelieving scoff that leaves his mouth at that, his eyes rolling, “Great idea, thanks. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Far as he knows there’s nothing in it, but Theo starts moving forward towards the kitchen anyway, suddenly desperate to be moving, to be _away_ ; at least as far as he can get. Even though—true to form—Liam follows him immediately, saying, “Theo—”

But Theo cuts him off as he steps through the negative space between the two brick walls that form the kitchen’s doorway, snaps over his shoulder, “Liam, c’mon. You heard everyone tonight. I don’t have a lot of options.”

He was right—there’s nothing in the kitchen, furniture or otherwise—but there is a granite island, and he rounds it, deliberately puts it between himself and Liam as Liam comes through the doorway after him. Liam doesn’t seem to notice, just comes to a stop on the island’s other side and keeps _looking_ at Theo, expression pinched and unhappy.

“Let’s go talk to Scott, then,” He tries, “He’s not cruel, he’s not going to put you in danger like that, not if he really thinks about it.”

What Theo hears, though, is Argent saying _feel free to tell him if you think it’ll accomplish anything_. Liam’s never really seemed to understand necessary evils in the same way that Scott has—minus that one, glaring, and in the end _un_ necessary evil Liam had accepted in bringing Theo back—and so Theo doesn’t argue, doesn’t say _he already has_ ; he just shakes his arm to shake his jacket sleeve further over his braceleted wrist.

“Look. Just drop it, okay? It is what it is. I made my deal,” Theo finally tells him, and _there’s_ the exhaustion; he sounds like he’d felt standing by his truck when he’d realized that Argent had him over a barrel; utterly defeated.

But Liam—Liam just snorts, looking away, but not fast enough for Theo to miss the scorn that crosses his face as he mutters, “Right. Your _deal_.”

Theo feels his eyes narrow, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Liam hesitates, clearly caught, but then just mumbles, “Nothing,” sullenly.

“Bullshit,” Theo snaps, his irritation back and—if nothing else—burning away some of his exhaustion, “Don’t be shy now, you’re the one that brought it up. Spit it out.”

Jaw working, Liam glares at Theo for a few seconds and then says, “Earlier, when you were making your _deal_. You kept saying that you get to leave, that you get to ‘walk away.’”

Theo can hear the air-quotes around the last two words and is strongly tempted to throw something at him, though even if he gave into the urge, there’s nothing to _throw_ in the near-empty apartment, “So?”

Liam hesitates again, then explains, “ _So_. What you’re really doing is running away.”

Theo stares at him wordlessly, his irritation starting to transmute into actual anger, “Running— _running away?_ Are you fucking—”

He takes an instinctive, half-step forward and feels something sharp dig into his side as the movement causes his jacket—and its right pocket—to pull taut, and stops. He just _stops_ , mid-sentence and with Liam half-leaned forward, heels dug in and ready to continue their fight; he blinks when Theo cuts off, momentum clearly derailed.

Theo stares at him for a few seconds longer, his side still stinging, and then he covers his face with his hands, drags them down and leaves them over his mouth as he says, voice muffled by his fingers, “I can’t do this right now.”

Concern flickers over Liam’s face, clear as day, “Theo—”

Theo doesn’t let him finish; he doesn’t, really, let him start, “Liam, _please_.” He begs quietly, and _that_ really seems to throw Liam for a loop, “I can’t.” Then, something about Liam’s obvious worry tugging at him, he offers, “I make it through tomorrow, you can yell at me all you like then. Just—not tonight.”

But Liam just swallows and asks, voice low and almost—almost a little bleak, “And what if you don’t make it through tomorrow?”

Theo feels his chest cramp painfully as he catches the thin thread of distress twining itself around and through Liam’s scent, and he goes for the cheap joke automatically, instinctually; wanting that scent gone, “Then I guess you’re off the hook, huh? I won’t be your responsibility anymore.”

He knows—he _knows_ —the second it leaves his mouth that it’s going to come out wrong, and from the way that Liam flinches back and hurt flashes raw on his face before he quickly regains control of his expression, it had.

Theo closes his eyes, feels his own expression going pinched, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

He trails off, because he _had_ , maybe: some small, vicious part of himself that’s still mentally clawing at Argent’s well-disguised choke-chain, that’s still back in the McCall kitchen with Scott and every other member of the McCall pack flipping through a sterile, clinical file of some of the worst mistakes Theo’s ever made; that part had maybe meant it. But Liam had been the one—the _only_ one—to try to come to his defense, Sisyphean as that was always going to be: he’d been the one to say _it has to count for something_ , his voice half a plea.

“Look,” He starts quietly, opening his eyes and looking at Liam, who looks back at him half-reluctantly, mouth a flat, unhappy line, “It’ll be fine, okay? Scott, Malia, and Argent are all going to be there. Like you said, Scott’s not cruel. He’s not going to let Quentin or any of the others kill me.”

Except the issue isn’t whether or not Scott is going to _let_ the Chemult pack kill him, the question is whether or not Scott is going to be able to _stop_ the Chemult pack from killing him. Clearly Liam knows that, and knows that Theo knows that he knows that, but there’s just—nothing either of them can really do about it. Liam had already made his case and Theo had already shut him down, and they could continue to fight, maybe, except that Theo had already said _please_. Theo watches all these thoughts play across Liam’s face, and then he watches as Liam—gives in; his shoulders slump and his head drops, and his scent drops, too.

Theo doesn’t know what to do with his sudden victory, his mind feeling hazy and smoke-filled, and he’s still debating how to somehow dig them out of the heavy silence they’ve nearly buried themselves under when Liam finally looks back up, lips pulled between his teeth, eyes heavy-lidded.

“Just—just be careful tomorrow, alright?” And now _Liam_ sounds exhausted, and Theo has to smother a flinch, “All of this shit, the others, and the file, and your—your deal, no one’s going to be able to figure any of it out if you’re dead.”

_I’m not sure anyone’s going to be figuring anything out regardless_ , Theo thinks, but doesn’t say; he’s clearly already done Liam enough damage for tonight. Instead he just nods after a slight hesitation, Liam watching him and eventually nodding back, too, the movement clearly a little helpless, automatic; self-comforting.

“I’ve got school tomorrow, and Scott said you’re taking off for Chemult early. I should—I should go,” Liam says after another few seconds.

And Theo—who would have given just about anything for Liam to have realized the same thing, said the same thing not fifteen minutes ago—Theo nearly opens his mouth to do—something. Protest or make some excuse or just _beg_ , for the second time tonight. But he doesn’t, and Liam takes his silence as agreement, and after a few beats of half-expectant hesitation, he exhales out quietly and turns for the door.

“Liam,” The word’s out of his mouth before Theo’s really thought about it, or can stop himself; he manages to wipe the surprise off his face before Liam turns back, but only just. For an instant Theo thinks about deferring, saying _nothing, sorry_ , but: “Thanks. For the supplies, and for—” _Fighting for me earlier, and fighting_ with _me now_ , “—thanks.”

Liam studies him for a few seconds, one hand on the brick wall. Then he bites his lip and nods, taps his closed fist once on the wall like punctuation, and turns away. Theo stares after him, and he keeps staring after him long after he hears the front door roll back shut, long after the sound of it closing has faded and Theo is left alone with only the dull hum of electricity through the overhead lights, the clicking and whirring of the empty fridge; the sound of everyday noises echoing through his cavernous, empty apartment.

He knows there are things he should do. He needs to take stock of the supplies Scott sent over, figure out what he’s missing. He needs to set up the air mattress. He needs to change out of his current clothes, which reek of stress and anger and regret, and he probably needs to shower off the same. He needs, if nothing else, to go lock the front door.

What he actually does is turn so that his back is to the island and he can slowly slide down until he’s sitting on the floor, legs spread and knees bent. Reaching into his right pocket, he takes out the three photos of his sister, of Josh, of Tracy, that he’d stolen from the Sheriff’s file earlier and places them on the ground in front of him, arranges them carefully so that he can see every detail of each one between his spread knees.

Propping his elbows on his knees and burying his fingers in his hair, Theo stares down at the photos; he stares down at them for a long time.

\---

Art by [ArtZeppo](https://artzeppo.tumblr.com/)

\---

The first thing that the Chemult pack alpha does when Scott, Argent, Malia, and Theo arrive the next day at the agreed-upon rendezvous—a rundown bar off of Highway 97—is bury his clawed hand in Theo’s gut.

Theo chokes on a sudden mouthful of blood— _nicked a lung_ , some clinical part of his mind notes—and grabs at Quentin’s shoulder, his arm, more because his knees threaten to collapse with the sudden shock and pain than out of any delusion of self-defense. He can hear Emma—the Chemult emissary—shout _Quentin_ , can hear Scott yell _wait, please!_ , can hear the sound of several shifted werewolves—and Malia—start to snarl and growl in threat and warning. But it’s all nearly drowned out by the roar of white noise in his head as Quentin twists his hand, shredding his insides further, Theo’s fingers clutching uselessly around Quentin’s collar, his sleeve.

“This is for my sister,” Quentin snarls, mouth right up against Theo’s ear, “And my father.”

He punctuates each statement with a flex of his clawed fingers, a further turn of his clawed hand. Theo finds himself half-hysterically wondering if he’s more likely to die from grevious bodily injury or suffocation first, his mouth filling up with more and more blood; he can’t keep from inhaling it, his lungs starting to fill up. Quentin pulls his head back after a moment, just enough to meet Theo’s eyes—his own flared bright red—his mouth curved in a satisfied smile. But then Quentin’s gaze flicks over Theo’s shoulder, out towards where Scott, Argent, and Malia were last standing, and his eyes narrow.

All at once he rips his hand out and Theo falls, barely manages to get his hands and knees underneath him before he hits the ground. As it is his arms shake so badly they nearly collapse, and he vomits up a mouthful of blood and bile, forces himself to squeeze his eyes shut before he can look down instinctually and see the wreck of his own intestines as his healing struggles to repair the damage. Instead he steels himself—every nerve in his body shrieking in pain—and turns his head, panting for breath, so that he can look over his shoulder, try and see what had made Quentin let him go.

It’s Argent, stance perfectly balanced and gun pointed right between Quentin’s eyes. Theo knows for a fact that there’s wolfsbane in the bullets, had argued furiously with Argent in the McCall driveway that morning against his bringing them; had snapped, _why did you even force me into this if you’re not going to listen to me_. But Argent had just loaded the clip into his gun and reholstered it, and had ordered Theo to his truck; argument over.

“I thought you were hunting hunters, McCall. You bringing one along seems a little counterintuitive,” Quentin comments, sounding almost amused, but Theo hears the undercurrent of mounting hostility in his voice.

“Monroe and her band aren’t hunters, they’re murderers,” Argent retorts calmly.

“Sounds like an interesting story,” Quentin answers, though he doesn’t sound particularly interested, “You can tell me all about it, once I’ve dealt with _this_ murderer.”

_Shit, shit_ , Theo thinks frantically, but doesn’t have the strength or the necessary control over his limbs to fight back or otherwise avoid it when Quentin grabs him by the neck with one hand and hauls him up, his other hand raised and poised to strike. Theo closes his eyes and turns his head to the side, waiting, his fingers scrabbling weakly at Quentin’s wrist, and then his eyes snap open when the _crack_ of a gunshot splits the silence.

He tips his head back and sideways just enough in Quentin’s grip that he can look at Argent, who’s bringing his slightly smoking pistol back in line with Quentin’s forehead from where he’d apparently just fired a warning shot close by.

“Let him go,” Argent orders.

Beside him, Scott suddenly finds his voice, “ _Please_. I know you have a history with Theo—”

It’s the wrong thing to say— _christ_ , Theo had _told_ Scott it’d be the wrong thing to say when they’d stopped for lunch and Scott had asked Theo how he thought they should approach the Chemult pack—and Quentin’s hand spasms around Theo’s neck, tightening with bruising force as he barks out a disbelieving laugh.

“A ‘ _history_ ’?” He demands incredulously, “Do you know who he _is_? Do you know what he’s _done_?”

But Scott just holds his hands up, palms out, voice that _true alpha_ calm that Theo had always _hated_ , because he couldn’t help reacting to it; same as the rest of the Chemult pack can’t, either, the steady _thrum_ of violence in the air seeming to hesitate as Scott continues, “If it’s anything like what he did to my pack, then yes, I do.”

Quentin’s hand loosens—probably involuntarily—as he stares at Scott, his brow furrowing and his mouth opening in confusion, “Then why…?”

“It’s a long story. But it’s one you need to know,” Scott answers, voice still that same soothing, carefully cajoling tone.

Theo can feel Quentin waver—can feel it in Quentin’s grip around his neck, in the way that it eases and then tightens in quick succession—and then Quentin drops him. This time Theo’s arms don’t manage to hold him when he tries to catch himself and he just crumples onto his side, the impact knocking the wind out of him and reopening the still-jagged wound nearly tearing him in half. He coughs, the ground in front of his mouth immediately turning red, and when he looks up—sight blurry and jumping—Quentin is staring down at him, and Theo can see his urge to lean down and just finish the job writ plain across his face.

“Fine,” He finally says, and looks away from Theo, out towards Scott and the others, “You’d better come inside and explain it, then.” He looks back down at Theo and then turns to head into the bar as he adds over his shoulder, “The half-breed pack-killer stays outside.”

From what little Theo can hear, can see over his body’s near all-consuming agony, Quentin’s pack immediately follow him. Scott, though—Scott is over to Theo in an instant, dropping down onto his knees beside Theo as Theo forces himself over and up onto his hands and knees, sickeningly aware of the blood dripping from his shredded gut and creating a spreading puddle that’s staining his jeans, his palms. Almost instantly Scott gets a hand on his back, his shoulder, slides the latter up and over Theo’s collar until he can touch the skin of Theo’s neck, start taking his pain. But Theo just grits his teeth and knocks Scott’s hand away, snarls weakly when Scott makes a protesting sound and goes to put it back.

“ _Stop it_ ,” Theo snaps, then has to pause and cough up another mouthful of blood as the effort of talking causes his muscles to spasm and cramp. He spits out the last, lingering dregs of it and then continues hoarsely, “You have to get inside, all of you.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Scott counters stubbornly, “We need to—”

“You need to _get inside_ , ” Theo cuts him off forcefully. Or as forcefully as he can, anyway; his voice shakes and dips with strain, “You want to make the situation worse? Because this is how you make the situation worse. _Get inside_.”

It’s Scott, though, so Theo doesn’t count on appealing to his occasionally nonexistent better sense; he looks at Argent—Argent and Malia coming to stand just off Scott’s shoulder—instead.

“Argent—” Theo starts, then snaps his jaw shut around a shocky gasp and curls in on himself, a sudden burst of pain seizing his body.

Luckily Argent is a goal-oriented type with a situationally-absent sense of empathy; he speaks right over Theo’s harsh panting and tells Scott, not unkindly, “He’s right, Scott. Every second we’re out here is an insult.”

Scott bites off a frustrated and half-incredulous noise, “Chris, he nearly _killed—_ ”

“I _know_ ,” Chris interrupts, “But bad as the damage looks, Theo isn’t in any mortal danger. Quentin decides he doesn’t want to hear you out anymore, however, and he might decide to come back out and finish the job.” And then, the shock of it enough to momentarily mute the pain and allow Theo to look up, stunned, Argent adds, “You need to listen to Theo, Scott. Get inside. Malia, go with him.”

“C’mon, Scott,” Malia murmurs gently, Theo managing to sit—fall, really—back onto his heels in time to see her get a hand underneath Scott’s arm, start pulling him up.

For a moment Scott looks like he’s going to fight her on it, distress and—and _guilt_ all over his face, and then he climbs reluctantly to his feet and lets her start tugging him towards the bar, though he keeps looking back over his shoulder right up until the door swings shut behind them. Argent watches them go until they disappear from sight, and then he kneels carefully down in front of Theo—effortlessly avoiding the pool of blood—and reaches forward to gingerly pull back some of Theo’s ruined shirt, get a closer look at the still raw and gaping wound. Theo has to swallow back an instant, childish desire to pull away or otherwise resist and just lets him look, his whole body one long line of dully persistent agony.

Argent exhales heavily after ten or so seconds and glances up at Theo, expression about as sympathetic as it ever gets, “That’s going to take a while to heal, alpha wound and all.”

“I’m aware,” Theo informs him icily, meeting Argent’s steady gaze. There’s no point in saying _I told you so_ —and chances are Argent wouldn’t give a shit anyway—but god _damn_ it; Theo had _told them so_.

Argent studies him for another long few seconds, and then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys as he says, “There’s a medical kit in the trunk. Do what you can for now.”

He at least doesn’t make Theo reach for them, instead taking hold of one of Theo’s hands and pressing them into his palm so that Theo can close his fist around them without moving too much. Then he stands, and—giving Theo one last, appraising glance—he turns and heads for the bar as well. Theo watches him go until he disappears inside, too, and then he brings his hand up and around in front of himself, opens his fingers and stares down at the keys.

Then he slowly, laboriously stands—one arm crossed protectively over his ruined stomach—and starts making his stumbling, shuffling way over to Argent’s SUV.

Twenty minutes later and he has, by some minor miracle, managed to make it over to the trunk and locate the medical kit without falling over or passing out. He _had_ left bloody smears across the trunk’s edge, its handle—its carpet, when he’d had to brace himself on a shaky palm to lean forward and pull the kit to himself—but Argent would goddamn have to deal; no doubt it wouldn’t be the first time he’d have to shampoo blood out of the upholstery. The medical kit had suffered some damage, too, as he’d fought with the nylon bag’s zipper and finally managed to get it open and pull out a package of sterile injury pads and gauze, but hell: that was just in keeping.

He is, however, still having trouble trying to peel himself out of his jacket, his sluggishly-healing gut protesting loudly every time he tries to twist to get his arms out of his sleeves. Theo is staring at the pair of trauma shears in the kit and strongly considering just giving in and cutting _himself_ out of his ruined clothes when he tags the sound of the bar door opening, his senses automatically arrowing out to track who it is, muted and hazy as his hearing, his sense of smell are. But it’s a familiar scent and Theo just sighs, drops his head down loose on his neck between the arms he’d braced on Argent’s trunk, and waits until Scott gets close enough that he won’t have to raise his voice to murmur:

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

“We gave Quentin and the others the CliffsNotes version of the story about Monroe, and Argent and Malia are in there with the file the Sheriff prepared giving them more background,” Scott answers, preemptorily detailed to head off further criticism as he joins Theo at the open trunk. His expression when Theo glances over at him is subdued, his hands shoved in his pockets, but he’s unapologetic when he explains, “I told Quentin I’d answer any questions he had for me, but only _after_ I checked on you.”

Theo snorts out a humorless laugh and then immediately regrets it when the movement causes his injury to pull; a fresh, sharp burst of pain radiating out from the damage, “You’re a walking diplomatic disaster, you know that?”

Scott huffs an equally self-deprecating laugh and meets Theo’s eyes wryly as he replies, “I don’t know that anyone’s ever put it in quite those words, but.” Then he takes a hand from his pocket and holds it up, “May I?”

There’s no point in refusing this time—Scott had already thrown himself into a hole of his own digging—so Theo waves a dismissive hand in his direction; _permission granted_. Scott gives him a slight smile in thanks and reaches forward, gets his hand on the back of Theo’s neck and starts siphoning his pain. Theo has to close his eyes against the almost-euphoric rush of it, several of his cramped muscles unlocking and relaxing, though the pain’s sudden absence leaves him even shakier and hollowed-out-feeling than before; Scott tightens his hand when he feels Theo wobble, steadying him.

Breathing now easier and healing accelerating some—though still barely more than a crawl in comparison to his body’s usual abilities, because _alpha wound and all_ —Theo opens his eyes in time to see Scott lean over and start flicking through the medical kit with his free hand, expression gone sharp; focused. He darts a considering look at Theo’s shirt and jacket, the wound underneath, and then glances up at Theo ruefully.

“How attached are you to these clothes?” Scott asks him wryly, and Theo swallows down another—unexpected, surprisingly genuine—laugh before it can pull at his injury again; before, really, Scott can see it and think he’s won something.

Between the two of them they manage to get Theo’s jacket slid down his arms and off with minimal additional damage, though Theo stops Scott when he goes to drop it on the ground in an obvious _to be discarded_ pile; his objection is too quick and he doesn’t have a good explanation ready, but Scott just frowns at him for a moment and then shrugs, folds it in half and sets it in the open trunk without comment. He _does_ wind up cutting Theo out of his ruined shirt, though, because even if Theo _had_ been particularly attached to it, there’s no saving it. As it is Scott still has to spend five minutes picking threads and other bits of fabric and debris out of the still-raw wound, Theo now leaned back against the trunk and wincing at the odd—but pain-free, Scott using the hand he’s got braced against Theo’s hip to steady himself to also siphon him—sensation as Scott wields the tweezers.

Injury as cleaned-out and treated as it's ever going to get, Scott has Theo stand up so that he can rinse it with the wound wash from the kit, Theo having to grit his teeth and stare blinkingly upwards as the sting of the alcohol in the solution surpasses the threshold of Scott’s pain-draining. Scott grimaces sympathetically but doesn’t stop, just keeps catching the run-off with one of the sterile pads before setting the bottle back down, picking up a second pad to cover the wound itself.

“There’s a joke in here somewhere about you being a pseudo-vet tech and me being half-werewolf,” Theo finds himself noting thoughtfully a minute or so later as he watches Scott work, Scott now half-bent at the waist and winding gauze around Theo’s stomach.

He’s not exactly sure where the joke comes from, but it comes regardless, Scott looking up at him in surprise and then his mouth curling in a helpless, amused smile before the laugh finally breaks loose. Theo looks out and away after a beat, but he’s laughing quietly, too, the last of the tense atmosphere cracking and crumbling under its own weight.

Finally Scott tapes down the last of the gauze and straightens, “If this is anything like that time that—” He cuts himself off abruptly, and Theo squints at him for a moment before wincing and looking away, because he was almost _definitely_ about to say _that time you did the same thing to me_ , “It’ll, uh. It’ll take a few days to heal all the way. We’ll keep treating it, see if we can speed it up.”

“Okay,” Theo agrees carefully, then starts to add: “Scott, you should really—”

But Scott ends up talking over him, “I should have listened to you yesterday when you warned us something like this would happen. I’m really sorry, Theo.”

Theo stares at him, taken aback, and then he studies Scott thoughtfully for a few seconds and guesses, “You thought I was being dramatic.”

It’s what Theo would have thought in Scott’s place, anyway, and apparently he’d nailed it because Scott winces and starts to bring one hand up to rub at the back of his neck before remembering that his hands are covered in Theo’s blood, and stopping, “I was being naive.”

Theo studies him for a moment longer and then shrugs, looks away as he says, “It’s fine,” more out of a rote instinct to respond than because it’s actually true.

Apparently Scott feels the same, because he immediately counters, “It’s really not.”

“Then it’s over,” Theo retorts instead, just a hint of frustration seeping into his tone; he turns back to the medical kit and starts putting it back to rights, mostly to have something to do other than continue to so obviously evade Scott’s steady, apologetic gaze.

But Scott can’t let it go, at least not yet, “I just didn’t think he’d actually… And Chris—”

This time Theo talks over Scott, throwing the last of the unused sterile pads back into the kit as he says bitterly, “Argent knew the risks. He just thought the potential benefits outweighed them.”

When he glances over at Scott once he’s repacked the last of the supplies, Scott is frowning like he doesn’t know how to react to Theo’s claim. But after a few long seconds he shakes himself, like a perfectly visible and perfectly clear personal reset, and bites his lip as he meets Theo’s eyes again.

“Well. In a completely inadequate consolation prize, I’ll definitely listen next time you warn us about something like this,” Scott offers, lips quirked ruefully.

Theo just huffs an amused exhale and rolls his eyes, reaches forward for one of the bottles of water from the box in Argent’s trunk—packed neatly next to the medical kit, Argent’s SUV apparently the lovechild of Mary Poppin’s bottomless bag and the Boy Scout motto; _be prepared_ —and cracks it open. He dumps a bunch of it over his palms, offers it to Scott so that he can rinse his bloody hands, too, both of them using the cleaner strips of Theo’s cut-up shirt to finish scrubbing and drying their skin. It’s not perfect, but it might at least avoid them some funny looks and potential nine one-one calls.

That done, Theo goes to open his mouth, about to say for the third time in less than twenty minutes that Scott should go back inside, when Scott gives him a dry look and speaks before he can, “Yes, I know, I need to get back inside.”

But instead of turning and doing just that, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, starts flipping through it until he apparently finds the card he wants and slides it out of its slot, holds it out to Theo.

“This is the card Derek gave us for expenses,” Scott explains, “Why don’t you head into town and see if you can find us some motel rooms. Three, if they’ve got them.”

Theo hesitates for a moment and then reaches out, his chest tightening some at the unexpected show of faith, and comments, “Argent isn’t going to be too happy about you giving me my own room.”

Except he reaches forward with his left hand unthinkingly, and sees Argent’s bracelet. The warmth in his chest instantly freezes into ice, Theo’s fingers faltering just as he goes to grip the card. _He doesn’t know_ , Theo reminds himself, and tunes back into Scott just in time to hear Scott respond:

“Argent isn’t the one asking.”

His voice is hard, devoid of its usual good humor, and Theo feels his eyebrows climb as he realizes that, whether or not Scott had actually believed Theo’s claim about Argent, he certainly thought it enough of a possibility for it to bother him. Jaw working—and the ice in his chest thawing, some—Theo finishes taking the card and tucks in into his left back pocket. It’s in the process of doing so that he looks far enough down to see and remember his blood-soaked jeans and he grimaces, adding _change pants_ to his mental to-do list, right below _find a freaking shirt to put on_.

His distraction is the reason that Scott manages to get partway into gathering up the used medical supplies and other debris—including the remnants of Theo’s ruined shirt—before Theo can say anything. Theo stares at him in exasperation for a few seconds, but to his surprise it’s an amused sort of exasperation; toothless.

“You’re unbelievable,” Theo tells him, “Would you just get back inside? I’ll take care of cleaning up.”

He wonders if Scott can hear the smile in his voice, thinks he probably can when Scott pauses—like he’s just fully realized what he’s doing—and blinks, flushing some. But he sets the pile of discards back down and shoots Theo an embarrassed grin, hand coming up again and this time actually scratching at the back of his neck, Scott’s hands mostly blood-free now.  

“You sure you’ll be alright?” Scott asks, and Theo knows he’s not talking about the clean-up. It’s a dumb question in a lot of ways but it means something that Scott asks it, and Theo finds his lips quirking in a small smile, one hand resting on the ledge of Argent’s trunk.

“I’ll be fine,” Theo assures him, then reaches forward and retrieves Argent’s keys from where he’d thrown them carelessly inside when he’d first gotten the trunk open, still reeling from pain and blood-loss. Leaning back out, he turns and tosses them to Scott, who catches them effortlessly, “Give those back to Argent, would you?”

“Sure,” Scott agrees automatically, and then—after another half-beat of hesitation—he smiles quickly one last time at Theo and turns to head back into the bar.

Theo waits until the door has shut behind him, and then he closes his eyes, covers his face with his hands. He feels Argent’s bracelet against his skin, just like he had last night with Liam standing across from him, but this time it’s just—data. Just information; he drops his hands again and looks around, sees a dumpster half-hidden behind a trio of haphazardly-parked trucks.

He finishes throwing away the pile of discards—moving slow, but moving—and wipes the blood off the outside of Argent’s SUV, and then he can’t avoid it anymore. Standing in front of Argent’s still-open trunk, Theo stalls for a few more heartbeats and then he grits his teeth and gets a hand on his jacket, drags it over from where it’d been sitting, untouched, since Scott put it down.

The bottom right corner of his sister’s photo—the largest of the three—is stained red, but Josh’s and Tracy’s are both clean. All three are bent, though, probably from the time that Quentin had dropped him; Theo had fallen almost directly onto his right side where they’d been tucked away in his pocket. Grimacing, his chest twisting with pain that has nothing to do with his still raw and wounded stomach, Theo straightens them out the best he can, blots at the half-dried blood on his sister’s photo, though it doesn’t do more than further stain his already-ruined jacket.

Then he tucks them into his back pocket, and reaches up with his braceleted left arm to close Argent’s trunk.

\---

“You’re not _listen—_ ” Theo bites off the rest of what he was going to say as their waiter appears with another Diet Coke for Argent and a third plate of wontons for Malia; Theo gives him a tight smile and waits until he’s disappeared again before picking back up, “You’re not listening to me. Staying here in Chemult pack territory any longer than we absolutely have to is a _bad idea_.”

Scott looks ready to agree with anything Theo has to say—his guilt trip apparently still firmly on the road—but Malia just snorts and says, “Maybe it’s not that we’re not listening to you. Maybe it’s that we don’t _believe_ you,” around a mouthful of sweet and sour sauce and fried pastry.

Theo turns to look at her, eyes narrowing and temper flaring, “I’m sorry, which part of my _voluntarily_ coming here—” Argent’s bracelet notwithstanding; Theo had agreed to help _before_ Argent had insisted on his _insurance_ , “— _knowing_ that I’d likely get disemboweled for it, and then actually getting disemboweled for it, has convinced you that I’m not genuinely trying to help? Should I go find another pack that wants me dead, maybe see if they’ll take a broadsword to me next?”

But Malia just matches his temper and sneered tone, leaning forward towards him across the table as she snarls, “Maybe you can go find one that’ll take a _shotgun_ to you next.”

Theo feels his nostrils flare as her aggression—her scent gone hot and half-wild in his nose, her eyes starting to shine under the dull fluorescent lighting—kicks his own up, but he doesn’t respond, because, well; she has a point. Luckily Argent steps in before the confrontation can escalate any further.

“Stop it, both of you,” He orders, voice low as he glances around the near-empty Chinese restaurant they’d stopped at for dinner as one of the only places in town that hadn’t near _reeked_ of Quentin or Quentin’s people. When he’s satisfied that neither the harried-looking father of three nor the trio of construction workers had noticed the noise or Malia’s eyes, he turns back to Theo and tells him, “You want us to listen, give us a better explanation.”

Theo just gives an irritated scoff and throws up his hands as he leans back, though the instant pull of his injured stomach causes him to wince and hunch back down quickly. Scott immediately puts a hand on his shoulder—the two of them sat next to each other in the cheap plastic booth seats, Argent and Malia on the other side, with Malia and Theo as far apart as Argent and Scott could realistically get the two of them—the tips of his fingers touching the exposed skin of Theo’s neck. Theo feels his breathing start coming easier as Scott siphons the spike of pain, and he shoots Scott a quick smile from underneath his ducked brow. Then he straightens back up and touches his tongue to his bottom lip, debating how best to give Argent _a better explanation_.

Finally he sighs and says, “Earlier, when you had a gun to Quentin’s head—”

“When he saved your life, you mean?” Malia interrupts pointedly, though she subsists with a muted growl when Scott murmurs _Malia_.

Theo looks at her, jaw working, and then back at Argent as he continues, “If you’d actually killed him, the Chemult pack probably would have given you a medal, if not thrown you a goddamn party.”

Even Argent looks thrown, though it’s Scott who protests, “But he’s their alpha.”

“He was never _supposed_ to be their alpha,” Theo explains, fingers picking up and starting to tear at Scott’s discarded chopsticks wrapper; Theo had stuck to egg drop soup and anything less likely to savage his still healing stomach, “He’s hot-headed and aggressive, and on his worst days, a sadist, even to his own people. Always has been. But it was never supposed to be an issue because he was never considered a viable candidate for alpha, after his father. His sister was the designated heir.”

“So what happened to his sister?” Malia asks before Scott or Argent can, though from the sharp look in her eyes, she’s got a pretty good guess.

Exhaling out heavily, Theo flicks away the scraps of paper he’d been slowly shredding and answers, “I did.”

He keeps his eyes on the table once he’s said it but he can feel Argent’s and Malia’s gazes burning against the top of his head, can feel Scott staring at him, eyes glued to the side of Theo’s face. None of them smell particularly surprised but Scott smells disappointed, and Theo brings his left arm up, braces his elbow on the table and scrubs at his forehead with the tips of his fingers as an automatic, helpless barrier between them. Even the knee-jerk swell of anger at the sight of Argent’s bracelet on his wrist isn’t enough to overcome the sudden hollow in his chest.

“The Storo line of werewolves has a unique ability, but it only shows up in certain descendants,” Theo isn’t entirely sure why he’s telling them this—he could get away with making his point without it—but he just swallows and keeps going, “Their full-shift werewolves take after an extinct breed of wolf that used to hunt moose, to give you a sense of the scale. They’re huge, powerful. The Doctors wanted to see if they could extract and implant the ability in a non-carrier.”

“And Quentin’s sister had the ability?” Scott prompts after a few long, strained seconds pass, his tone more gentle than Theo really deserves.

Theo nods, voice gone a little hoarse when he replies, “Ailene. She was everything Quentin isn’t. Smart. Kind, but not naive. Dedicated to her pack, even as one of her father’s betas.”

“How do you know all that?” Malia demands, half-confused, half-accusatory.

Theo has his mouth open to respond but Argent beats him to it, expression gone that same coldly calculating that it had two nights ago when he’d decided that Theo would be helping the McCall pack; willingly or not.

“He knows because of what Stiles’ said—lies and subterfuge,” The expression on Argent’s face dares Theo to argue, but Theo just looks away, down at his untouched, stone-cold cup of tea.

“She had her suspicions about me from the start, but her father overruled her. Not a whole lot of fresh blood rolls through Chemult; he wasn’t willing to pass up the opportunity to score a new, unrelated beta,” Theo finally continues, “It took me a few weeks, but I managed to deliver her to the—the Doctors.” He has to stop, take in a few deep breaths before he can finish, “She didn’t survive their experiments.”

When Theo finally drops his hand, Scott isn’t looking at him; Scott _won’t_ look at him. Theo ignores the clench in his chest—his sister’s heart beating faster at the sudden twist of pain—and just leans his head back against the padded booth back, stares up at the line of old, faded novelty Chinese calendars pinned along walls. He stares at one of the washed-out pictures of the Chinese zodiac and half-heartedly tries to push away the memory of Ailene sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, laughing at his _terrible taste in music_ , plugging her phone in to, quote, _educate you properly_. It’d been two days before he’d drugged her with wolfsbane and left her with the Dread Doctors; it’d been the last time he’d ever seen her alive.

“What about her father?” Argent finally asks after the silence has dragged long enough for their waiter to come by and ask if they want their check; Argent dismisses him with a tight smile as Malia pushes her half-eaten plate of wontons away, looking a little sick.

“He came after her,” Theo responds dully, and leaves it at that.

“Why’d the Doctors want the ability, anyway?” Malia demands suddenly, “For when they resurrected the Beast?”

But Theo just chokes on a painfully humorless snort, “They didn’t care about the ability, not really. They were just—curious.”

“So—so Quentin became the alpha,” Scott says gamely after another few long seconds of strained silence, “But I don’t understand how that connects—” He cuts himself off briefly, and then all at once bursts out with, “Why did you tell us all that?”

Theo rolls his head sideways so he can look at Scott, study him. Scott looks back, his distress written all over his face, and Theo sees—clear as day—the small, childish desire there to _not know_ ; a true alpha Scott may be, but he’s still young, and optimistic, and genuinely wants to believe the best of people. Deep in some corner of his mind he hadn’t wanted to be reminded of Theo’s past and Theo had done it anyway, had practically rubbed his and Argent’s and Malia’s faces in it, and while Scott maybe knows intellectually that the unvarnished truth is always preferable to the pretty lie, a selfish part of himself had maybe been hoping to keep sheltering in the latter. _Sorry_ , Theo apologizes silently, except—shifting some, shifting purposefully, he feels the prick of the photographs in his pocket—maybe he isn’t.

“What does any of that have to do with why it’s a bad idea for us to stay in Chemult?” Argent finally finishes for Scott, when it becomes clear that Scott isn’t going to.

Theo has to swallow a few times before he can answer, “Scott’s a threat to Quentin.”

“ _What_?” Scott and Malia both exclaim instantly, but across from Theo, Argent just leans back in his seat, the beginnings of understanding starting to wash over his expression.

“Scott’s a true alpha,” Argent murmurs, eyes watching Theo’s reactions carefully to check his assertion.

Theo nods, but from the baffled looks on Scott’s and Malia’s faces, they’re still not getting it, so Theo sighs and forces himself to sit up, shoves away the creeping tendrils of shame and regret that had started climbing up his ribcage like vines up a trellis.

“Look. Far as we know, Scott’s the only true alpha currently in existence. Which means every other alpha? They either inherited their position or they killed for it. But either way, they didn’t earn it like him,” Theo pauses, waiting for Scott or Malia to nod or exclaim or give any indication that they’re following his train of logic, but they just keep blinking at him silently, so Theo sighs and continues, “Scott’s proof that there’s another way, and for some alphas? That’s a very dangerous idea.”

“Some alphas like Quentin,” Malia realizes, expression going wide-open in understanding and then almost immediately locked-down as she recognizes the danger and her instincts kick in.

“This is a small town, with a tight-knit pack going back generations. Tradition means everything to them. Traditions like alpha inheritance, and unquestioning loyalty to whoever that alpha is,” Theo explains, voice now gone low, “Chances are all of those wolves you saw today had _heard_ about true alphas, but it would have been like a fairytale to them, a fantasy.”

Then Theo stops and looks pointedly at Scott, who’s at least willing to look _back_ , even if it’s only for a moment before he jerks his gaze elsewhere.

“Then Scott shows up on their doorstep, and suddenly unquestioning loyalty to an unworthy alpha doesn’t seem so sacrosanct anymore,” Argent concludes, one arm crossed over his chest and the fingers of one hand tapping thoughtfully against his lips.

“Exactly,” Theo agrees, “And for all that he’s a brute, Quentin’s not stupid. If he hasn’t already recognized that, he will soon.”

_And react_ , Theo doesn’t say, but he doesn’t need to. Argent’s expression has gone hard and his hand drifts unconsciously to his left side; brushing the butt of his gun, hidden in its shoulder-holster under his jacket. Beside him Malia is looking around the restaurant with a new set of eyes, fingers clenched around the edge of the table and her upper lip already pulled back in the beginnings of a snarl, like she’s expecting Quentin to pop up from behind the cash register or the kitschy gold beckoning cat statue by the entrance.

Scott, though—Scott just frowns at Argent, at Malia—at Theo—in turn, his brow pulled tight and his scent souring, “I’m not—I’m not saying you’re not right—” Though he clearly wants to be, his bleeding-heart nature clashing with the promise he’d made Theo earlier, “—but if what you’re saying is the case, isn’t that a good reason to do the opposite? To stay here and prove to them that they don’t need to follow someone like Quentin?”

Theo stares at him incredulously for a few seconds and then tells him, part frustrated and part exasperated; part reluctantly impressed, “This, this right here? This is _exactly what I mean_.”

“Scott, we’re not here to liberate a bunch of werewolves from their asshole alpha, we’re here to find Monroe,” Argent reminds him, firmly if not unkindly.

“Why can’t we do _both_?” Scott protests stubbornly, and Theo can’t help it; he snorts a laugh and shakes his head, now also reluctantly amused.

“At this rate, you’re almost definitely never going to find Monroe,” Theo comments glibly, and then jerks back, startled, when Malia turns and full-on snarls at him, eyes burning blue and teeth gone sharp.

“Malia!” Argent and Scott hiss almost simultaneously, Argent turning to glare at Theo, who raises his hands in surrender, wincing.

Malia drops the shift quickly, but she doesn’t turn away from Theo, who eyes her warily. He doesn’t realize that he’s wrapped his right arm protectively over his disturbed injury until Scott makes a huffing sound and takes hold of his left wrist, pushing back Theo’s sleeve and absently avoiding Argent’s bracelet as he wraps his fingers around Theo’s skin and starts siphoning his pain. Theo had already felt kind of like an asshole, but now he _definitely_ does, and he blows out a long, slow breath.

“Look. All I mean is that knowledge is power, and your knowledge is clearly lacking. You keep walking into these packs without knowing their history, their politics? You’re going to get someone killed, or start a war,” Theo tells him, tone nearly apologetic as Scott finishes taking his pain and releases Theo’s wrist.

“What, like you did?” Malia sneers, clearly still amped-up.

Theo just grits his teeth against the urge to sneer back and instead replies, “I never did it by _accident_ ,” pointedly.

Scott sits silently for a while—long enough that Theo chances a glance at Argent, who gives him a warning look that clearly communicates _don’t speak_ —and then he straightens, shoulders going back and chin coming up; decision obviously made. Theo’s ready for a patented _Scott McCall_ speech, something rousing and entirely, naively unrealistic—right up until the point where he inevitably _pulls it off_ —maybe something about how they _were_ going to do both, come hell or high water, except that Scott looks directly at him.

“Can you teach me?” He asks, strongly enough that the request is teetering on the edge of being a demand.

“What?” Theo replies, caught off-guard and unsure what exactly Scott’s asking.

“Can you _teach me_?” Scott repeats insistently, then—finally—clarifies, “The pack histories, and the—the politics. Can you teach me?”

Theo stares at Scott for a few bewildered seconds, and then he turns to look at Argent, but if he was hoping to see Argent just as thrown, he’s disappointed; Argent looks thoughtful, considering. Malia on the other hand looks like she’d maybe bitten into a particularly sour lemon, but Theo is almost positive that has more to do with _who_ Scott’s asking than what he’s asking _for_.

“Chris is right,” Scott goes on after a few more long seconds pass in silence, Theo trying and mostly failing to marshal his scattered thoughts and therefore not responding, “We’re not here because of Quentin, we’re here because of Monroe. She has to be our top priority. For—for now.”

Scott pauses and sucks in a deep breath, like a physical manifestation of his resigning himself to a truth he doesn’t like, and then he continues:

“And _you’re_ right, about me not knowing the pack histories or politics, and the danger that creates,” Scott tells Theo, catching and holding his eyes as he does.

Theo finds himself holding his breath involuntarily, that _true alpha_ calm he’d always hated catching and holding him, too. Then Scott blinks and drops his eyes, looks away and down at his hands twisting together in his lap as he concludes, more quietly:

“I don’t want to start any wars, and I don’t want anyone else to get hurt,” He and Theo both wince, nearly simultaneously and both clearly involuntarily. Finally Scott looks back up at Theo and asks, again—though this time it really is an ask, the edge of demand gone from his voice, “So can you teach me?”

Theo meets his eyes, Scott’s brow pulled tight around them and his mouth a determined line, and feels his own expression soften out of its confusion and into understanding. Licking his lips and looking away, a little overwhelmed by the sincerity practically emanating from Scott, Theo feels the bandages around his stomach—expertly reapplied by Scott at the motel not two hours ago—shift, feels the corners of the photographs in his pocket dig into side; feels the soft edge of Argent’s leather bracelet slide against the skin of his wrist.

“Yeah, Scott,” Theo finally says, tilting his head so that he can meet Scott’s somber eyes, “Yeah, I can teach you.”

\---

Liam is passed out on the abandoned futon in Theo’s apartment, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other dangling down over the too-narrow edge of it, since he hadn’t bothered to change its orientation from _couch_ , when Theo rolls open his front door late the next night.

“This is going to become a thing, isn’t it,” Theo comments as the noise causes Liam to startle awake and flail a bit, though he at least manages to keep himself from falling off. Theo isn’t sure if Liam can hear the undercurrent of amusement in his voice, but hopes Liam can’t; he doesn’t need any further encouragement.

“Fuck off,” Liam mumbles grouchily, his tone undercut by the sleepy way he sits up, rubbing at his eyes and squinting at Theo in the relative darkness, the overhead lights still off.

Theo just smirks and flicks them on, ignoring Liam’s flinch and the way he squeezes one eye closed against the sudden brightness, expression scrunching up. He’s halfway to tossing his duffel bag to the side when his injury pulls and he stops, grimacing, and drops it just inside the door instead. From the burning sensation against the side of his face, Liam is watching him intently, so Theo straightens and resettles his shoulders, tries to shake off the sudden dull throbbing radiating out from his wounded stomach.

“Hey, you’re the one who broke into my apartment. _Again_ ,” Theo points out a half-second too late, aiming to distract Liam the easiest way he knows how; annoyance.

Liam makes a face; _mission accomplished_ , “I didn’t _break in_. Derek let me in.”

That was almost definitely a continued, low-grade sort of passive aggression on Derek’s part. That, or he was getting some kind of genuine amusement out of constantly assisting Liam in harassing Theo. Possibly both. Either way, Theo finds himself curiously devoid of irritation.

“Okay, Officer Semantics. That doesn’t explain why you’re here,” Theo counters, remembering as he does so that he hadn’t yet rolled the door back shut.

He’s in the middle of doing that when Liam says, suspiciously nonchalant, “Homework. Did you know Derek has a master’s degree in chemical engineering? He’s like, crazy smart, in addition to being a werewolf and genuinely terrifying. It’s probably why he managed to snag both Stiles _and_ Lydia.”

The last part is so transparently Liam’s own attempted distraction that Theo just gives him a dry look over his shoulder, and doesn’t bite, “Except you weren’t at Derek’s getting help with homework. You were asleep on the abandoned futon in my apartment.”

When he turns back around after locking the door, Liam’s expression is mulish, and caught. Theo feels some of his amusement start to drain as he puts the pieces together. _Idiot_ , he tells himself bitingly.

“You were worried,” Theo guesses, and knows he’s right when Liam’s jaw clenches.

“And you’re a dick,” Liam snaps, tone gone sharp and more than a little accusatory, “You told me everything went fine yesterday.”

What Theo had actually said, sat on the cheap duvet cover on the cheap bed in the cheap motel room he’d found and staring down at Liam’s _how’d it go_ text, was: _could have been worse_. Which, strictly speaking: Theo could be dead, so. Still, Theo winces and looks away from Liam’s hot glare, works his jaw some as Liam’s soured scent causes his nose and mouth to burn dully.

“Relatively speaking, everything did go fine,” Theo finally says, more than aware that he’s taking the term _splitting hairs_ to a somewhat illogical extreme but not sure what the hell else to do; he doesn’t have any better idea of what to say to Liam today than he did to Scott yesterday.

“Oh, yeah?” Liam counters, pushing himself to his feet and gesturing towards Theo’s chest, “So if I came over there and punched you in your lying stomach, it wouldn’t reopen the gut wound Quentin gave you?”

_Oh, he knows_ , Theo realizes, then: _shit_.

“Yeah, Scott told me what happened,” Liam tells him acidically, “Which _you should have_.”

But Theo just meets his hot glare temper for temper, the sudden rise of his own washing away some of the lingering tangle of guilt and shame and regret that he’d been swallowing around since dinner last night, “And that would have accomplished what, exactly? What were you going to do about it from Beacon Hills? Argent kept Quentin from killing me and Scott’s been helping me treat the wound, and it’s _fine_.”

“What was I going to do from—?” Liam starts incredulously, then finishes in a frustrated near-shout, “That’s not the _point_ , you _emotionally stunted prick!_ ”

Theo stares at him, his own temper knocked off-track and all the arguments he’d started lining up just vanishing like smoke.

“Jesus, I swear I could _strangle_ you _myself_ ,” Liam mutters viciously as he jerks his heated gaze away from Theo, hands raking roughly through his hair.

“That seems like it’d be counterproductive, considering,” Theo quips before he can stop himself, and then winces, hands coming up, palms out, when Liam wheels on him, “Sorry.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Liam tells him, but now he just sounds tired; as Theo watches he scrubs his hands over his face and then drops back down onto the futon, head falling back and limbs sprawling wide as he does.

Theo considers it for a few seconds, but beyond the fact that he does, in fact, now feel like an asshole, his still-healing body is starting to protest still being upright, and so he makes his way over to the futon and slowly lowers himself down next to Liam. Liam tilts his head sideways to watch him as he does, and while Theo’s first instinct is to hide how much he’s still hurting, the point is pretty much moot. That, and he finds he doesn’t want to; he lets Liam see him as he gets his left hand down on the futon as a brace and then carefully pivots as he sits, mouth stretched in a grimace and right arm wrapped protectively over his stomach.

“You look like an eighty year-old man,” Liam comments once Theo’s finally collapsed against the back, near panting from the effort.

“Shut up,” Theo tells him, but it’s rote; toothless.

Liam just rolls his eyes, and holds out a hand, palm up, “Give me your hand.”

“What, why?” Theo asks, turning to look at him.

But Liam doesn’t answer, just reaches over and takes Theo’s left wrist out of his lap, pulls it over into his own. Almost immediately he starts siphoning Theo’s pain, and Theo closes his eyes against the rush of relief, lets his head fall back against the futon as he does. They’re silent for a half-minute or so as Liam drains him, the only sounds the clicks and groans of the building around them, the muted noise of the other residents talking and moving around; living. Finally Liam reaches back over and deposits Theo’s hand back in his own lap, and Theo lets his eyes slide slowly open as he tilts his head to look at him.

“Thanks,” Theo murmurs, but Liam just bites his lip, brow furrowing in a frown.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Liam asks quietly, and Theo has to fight the urge to let his eyes skitter guiltily away from Liam’s steady gaze.

“I don’t know,” Theo confesses after a few seconds, voice just as quiet, and finally lets his head fall back forward, eyes drifting sightlessly over the empty stretch of apartment in front of him.

It’s a lie, though, or at least an incomplete truth. Staring down at Liam’s text in that motel room, experiencing that weird cognitive dissonance that came with _knowing_ that he was seriously wounded but unable to _feel_ it, Scott’s pain-draining still in effect, Theo had been able to perfectly picture the bleak expression that Liam had been wearing when he’d said _and what if you don’t make it through tomorrow_ , and he just—hadn’t wanted to tell him. He hadn’t really known why, and after he’d finished sending his apparently pointless deflection of an answer, he’d locked his phone and hadn’t let himself think about it anymore. He still doesn’t really know why, now.

He’s expecting Liam to fight him on it, maybe get angry again or at least insist on some kind of actual answer, but Liam just exhales out slowly and turns his head back forward, too. It’s a strange silence that falls, then, but not a bad one, the two of them just staring out at the rough brick of the opposite wall of the apartment, no furniture or furnishings or anything else to break up the view. Theo’s actually starting to drift off when Liam tilts his head sideways—both of them with their heads still leaned back against the back of the futon—to look at him again.

“What are you guys doing back so early, anyway? I was surprised when Scott texted the group chat to say you were heading home, I thought you were supposed to be in Chemult for another few days at least,” He asks, Theo rousing some as he does, blinking and sucking in a deep breath to help wake himself up.

“I convinced them to leave as soon as we were sure Monroe wasn’t in Chemult anymore,” Theo replies, voice already sounding sleep-rough. He swallows to moisten his dry throat and goes on, “We spent the day with the Chemult pack checking the town, but once we’d found all the potential clues to where she’d gone, we got the hell out of dodge.”

“Because of you?” Liam asks, then makes a face, apparently at his own poor choice of words, because he clarifies, “I mean, because of what Quentin did to you. And what he might do if he got another chance.”

Theo is already shaking his head before Liam finishes, “Shockingly, no. Argent had me stick with him and his wolfsbane bullets the whole day to head off that possibility, but the problem was Scott.”

“Scott. Really,” Liam says, skepticism practically dripping from his words.

“Yeah, alright, smartass,” Theo huffs, knocking Liam’s shoulder with his own, “It’s a long story.”

Liam waits expectantly, but when it’s clear Theo isn’t going to continue he rolls his eyes and elbows Theo—gently—in the side, “So? Are you going to tell me this long story?”

“Sure,” Theo answers, then adds after a deliberate pause, “Anytime when it’s not two in the morning.”

“Dick,” Liam replies, but he’s laughing quietly as he does it. Then he groans and covers his face with his hands, expression scrunching up, “God, it _is_ two in the morning, isn’t it? I should head home.”

And for the second time in three days Theo’s mouth goes running off without his brain and he finds himself saying, “You should just sleep here. You’ve already proved you can fall asleep on this futon.”

When he realizes what he’s said and turned to look at Liam instinctively, his own surprise certainly _feeling_ obvious on his face, Liam is staring back at him, brow furrowed. Theo’s about to backtrack, maybe make some kind of joke, when Liam’s expression spasms with _something_ too quick for Theo to catch and he looks away, out towards the empty apartment. When he looks back a few moments later, his mouth is pursed and he looks considering.

“If I’m on the futon, where are you going to sleep? I mean, since you’re apparently using the air mattress Scott gave you as a piece of postmodern art instead of a bed,” He asks, tongue firmly in his cheek as he gestures towards the still-bagged air mattress, sat exactly where Liam had left it two nights ago.

This time it’s _Theo_ who rolls his eyes, “Like I said: _smartass_.”

Liam insists on helping him set up the air mattress in the loft upstairs, to include stretching a set of sheets—also sitting exactly where Theo had dropped them after he’d finally laid down on the futon two nights ago, fingers compulsively tugging and picking at his new bracelet, his sister’s and Josh’s and Tracy’s photos arranged carefully on the floor by his head—over it. It’s probably a good thing that he does so, not that Theo does or will admit it, since the constant bending and stretching ends up reopening Theo’s still-raw gut wound. Theo’s attempts to hide that fact last for about ten seconds, and then Liam—tipped off by the scent of blood in the air or Theo’s suddenly stiff movements or whatever it is he senses—frowns at him, and then throws up his hands and mimes wrapping his fingers around Theo’s throat and shaking him when he realizes what had happened.

“This is exactly why I said you should let me do it,” Liam bitches at him five minutes later.

The two of them are crammed in front of the sink in the loft’s surprisingly compact bathroom, the plastic bag of medical supplies that Scott had retrieved from the animal clinic and sent Theo home with on their way back from Chemult sat on the closed toilet lid. Liam had ran downstairs to get it from Theo’s duffel after browbeating Theo into first admitting that the wound had reopened, and then into grudgingly recognizing that he’d need help redressing it, and finally into sharing that he did, in fact, have supplies to take care of it with. Theo just sighs and fights the urge to fidget, shirt off and arms bent back behind his head to keep them out of Liam’s way as he slowly unwinds the gauze from around Theo’s stomach.

Liam does fine—the used gauze dropped on the floor to be dealt with later—until he starts peeling back the sterile pad covering the actual wound, and then he blanches and stutters out, “Oh, _christ_ ,” fingers faltering halfway through.

Theo glances down at him, a little surprised at the strength of his reaction, “What, is it that much worse than when this happened to Scott?”

Liam just takes a deep breath and apparently rallies, straightening from where he’d instinctively flinched away and carefully pulling the pad the rest of the way off, “I wouldn’t know. Scott and I weren’t really in a good place when he was still healing up from what—”

He cuts himself off, and Theo instantly remembers Scott doing the same thing yesterday, and suddenly can’t _stand_ it. Eyes closing, he exhales out quietly and then fills in the missing words, “From what I did to him.”

Liam flicks a glance up at him and then almost immediately back down, continues after a beat, “Yeah. Anyway, I didn’t see the damage until it was almost all the way healed. And it sure as shit didn’t look like _this_. How are you even upright?”

_How are you not dead_ —that’s what he clearly means. Theo gets a lungful of Liam’s newly-distressed scent and feels his chest clench, and he nearly drops his hands to do—something. Touch Liam’s shoulders in comfort or tip his chin up so that he can’t see the admittedly awful-looking wound, anything to get that gut-punched look off Liam’s face. But he knows better—his earlier slip-up in telling Liam he should stay, and his even _earlier_ slip-up in opening his mouth about the Chemult pack at _all_ notwithstanding—and so he does the next best thing he can think of: he deflects.

“Spooky moon magic, I guess,” He tells Liam, borrowing a phrase that Stiles had started using to answer the bulk of the Sheriff’s unanswerable questions about the supernatural, “Are you going to finish helping me redress it or are you just going to keep staring at my abs for the foreseeable future?”

Liam makes a face and replies, “Don’t flatter yourself,” in a supremely unimpressed tone, but he gets moving again, and more importantly: his scent starts to clear.

His dressing isn’t as textbook perfect as Scott’s but it’s just the right amount of tight, Liam half-bent at the waist and taping the gauze down while Theo stares fixedly at the ceiling and tries not to think about the way that Liam’s breath is skating over the still-exposed nerves of his injury. The goosebumps he has less control over, but. Liam doesn’t say anything if he notices, just straightens and tosses the roll of medical tape back into the plastic bag sitting on the toilet lid.

The silence stretches some and Theo finds himself a little uncertain in it, reaches for his shirt slung over the towel rack to give himself something to do. He’s just finished tugging it carefully up his arms and is about to take a shot at getting it over his head—the odds hovering somewhere at fifty-fifty as to whether he can do it without undoing all of Liam’s hard work—when Liam seems to shake himself out of whatever thought he’d fallen into and realizes what Theo’s doing.

“Oh my god, you child,” Liam tells him frustratedly as he bats Theo’s hands out of the way and gets the shirt over Theo’s head himself, Theo huffing and resigning himself to it after the first few, unsuccessful seconds of resistance, “What are you going to do if you _do_ actually leave and something like this happens, bleed out in a ditch somewhere? Why are you so freaking allergic to asking for help?”

_‘If’_ _I do actually leave?_ Theo thinks, but doesn’t say, the thought—the idea of it—jarring like a misaligned gear. Liam finishes tugging Theo’s shirt into place and then steps back, looking Theo up and down like he’s checking his handiwork. Or, more likely: checking for some other wound or outstanding task that Theo conveniently forgot to mention and could injure himself trying to handle on his own.

“I’m fine, Liam,” Theo finally tells him, that soured edge starting to creep back into Liam’s scent.

“And I’m literally never going to believe you again when you say that,” Liam retorts, but there’s little heat in it; it’s mostly just a raw statement of fact. Theo swallows down a laugh, unsure why he’s amused—unsure why his chest feels lit up from the inside with a flicker of warmth—and leans around Liam to reach for the bag of medical supplies; moment over.

Liam passes back out almost immediately once he hits the futon—its orientation now lowered flat, Theo firmly _not_ allowed to help him change it—his body curled into a loose ball underneath the UCLA Nursing throw retrieved from the pile of linens Scott had originally sent over. Theo, though—Theo winds up flipping around on his air mattress in the upstairs loft so that his feet are facing the giant, near floor-to-ceiling windows. He lays with his head propped up on one of the pillows Scott had sent over and one knee bent towards the ceiling under one of the fleece blankets Scott had provided, his stolen photos of his sister, Josh, and Tracy set carefully by his pillow and his eyes fixed on the glittering lights of Beacon Hills spread out before him.

He’s got his arms outside of the blanket, his right thumb tracing the runes etched into the leather of Argent’s bracelet on his left wrist, his tired mind repeating _if you do actually leave_ in time with every completed symbol, with every one of Liam’s steady breaths downstairs, on and on, an infinite, endless loop: _if, if, if_.

\---

Art by [ArtZeppo](https://artzeppo.tumblr.com/)

\---

Four weeks later and Theo is sat across from Scott at a diner in Carson City, desperately trying not to laugh at Scott’s crayon-on-back-of-kid’s-menu—which the waitress had delivered with a slightly baffled look upon Scott’s request—rendition of the Glaeser pack structure, Scott drawing little stick figures and pictures next to each name as if that’s somehow going to help him remember the hierarchy.

“—and Nathaniel is the second oldest son of Rosalia, the alpha of the Denio pack on the Oregon border. He married Nina Glaeser, the alpha of the Carson City pack, which caused a feud with the Lakeview pack because they wanted him to marry their alpha heir—” Scott is saying, pointing to each respective person’s stick figure representation in turn with the periwinkle crayon in his hand.

“Willow Ranch,” Theo interrupts as he spears the lone blueberry left on Malia’s otherwise spotless and abandoned plate and pops it in his mouth, “The Lakeview pack heir used to spend her summers in Denio with Rosalia’s pack, the two packs consider the other practically extended family. It was the Willow Ranch pack that was pissed Nathaniel ran off to marry Nina.”

“Right, shit,” Scott curses, scribbling out his most recently drawn arrow, “You said the Lakeview-Denio alliance is why nothing ever came of that spat.”

“That, and Rosalia could probably take the Willow Ranch pack single-handedly,” Theo agrees, smiling absently at their waitress when she comes by to refill their coffees; they’re going to have to leave her a massive tip, what with the fact that it’s probably the sixth or seventh time she’s done so in the nearly two hours they’ve been here.

“Okay, right,” Scott mutters as Theo tears open a pack of sugar and dumps it into his own coffee, then snags a container of creamer from the pyramid he’d built from the tiny white containers and gets that poured into Scott’s.

It’s not a second too soon; Scott reaches out and—after a few missed attempts, his eyes still on his notes—manages to grab his mug and bring it to mouth to take a healthy swallow. Tamping down on his amusement, Theo cocks his head and studies Scott’s most recent addition to his cheat sheet, which appears to be a tree trunk having an immensely bad hair day, surrounded by what Theo realizes after a moment is supposed to be fence. As he watches, Scott draws an arrow between the fenced-in, frizzy-haired tree—Willow Ranch—and the crude rose he’d sketched out earlier under the word _Denio_ , then labels the arrow with a frowny face. _Whatever works_ , Theo thinks to himself, and bites back his grin.

Theo’s in the middle of taking a sip of his own coffee, gaze absently skipping over the restaurant, studying the comers, the goers—their waitress flirting with a state highway patrol officer just coming off-shift—when Scott takes a deep breath and confirms, “And you think Quentin is going to have called Nina, warned her against working with us because of—”

He stops abruptly and Theo just sighs in frustration and gives him a pointed look, Scott grimacing and scratching at the back of his neck sheepishly as Theo fills in, “Because you’re working with me?” Scott nods after a half-second of hesitation, and Theo shrugs, “Probably, but Nina thinks Quentin is even more of an idiot than I do. Not to mention, last I heard, Nathaniel’s mother and the Denio pack had taken in at least one former Chemult member as a political refugee of sorts, after he disagreed with one of Quentin’s decisions and essentially had to flee town. Needless to say, neither the Denio or Carson City packs are fans.”

Scott bites his lip, eyes flicking down to his notes, and then he looks back up at Theo and tentatively offers, “So...Lakeview isn’t either?”

Theo grins at him, impressed, “There you go.”

Scott smiles back, but then he looks back down at his notes and groans, covers his face with his hands, “God, this afternoon is going to be like Sacramento all over again.”

This time Theo really does laugh, though he reigns it in quickly and assures Scott, “Nah, it won’t be. Nina isn’t that much of a hardass, she knows you’re a relative newcomer to all this. And besides, your showing in Sacramento was probably the funniest thing to happen to Marcus in years. He’ll be telling that story to his grandchildren.”

“Great,” Scott mutters, his fingers now buried in his hair, his elbows braced on the table as he glances up from his notes and gives Theo a wry look, “Hopefully he includes the part where you stepped in and saved me from myself.”

Theo just quirks a small smile at him in acknowledgement and doesn’t respond, but it doesn’t stop Scott’s expression from sliding into thoughtfulness as he studies Theo shrewdly.

“How do you remember all of this, anyway? I feel like I’m trying to keep track of all the political players in Game of Thrones without the ability to check Wikipedia, but it just seems—effortless, for you,” Scott asks, and Theo—who tests his scent automatically, instinctually—doesn’t catch anything other than genuine curiosity coming from him.

Maybe it’s that lack of any hidden motive that causes Theo—before he can think better of it and stop himself—to say, “Practice. And punishment.” Scott’s eyes widen and Theo can see his mouth start to open, some of the good humor draining from his face and posture, so Theo quickly continues, ignoring the half-second, there-and-gone clench of his chest, “But hey, who needs my methods or Wikipedia when you’ve got this masterpiece? I assume this blue blob next to the binoculars is Lakeview. Tell me about their alpha, why her relationship with Nina and Carson City matters to us now.”

The distraction works, at least for the twenty additional minutes it takes Scott to run back through all the information he’d gleaned from Theo about the Carson City pack and its most important allies—and enemies—and convince himself that he’s prepared for their meeting that afternoon. His confidence will last right up until about the last ten minutes of the car ride over to the McCall and Carson City packs’ agreed-upon meeting spot, Theo estimates, and then he’ll spend those last ten minutes getting roughly, if sincerely, talked through his attack of nerves by Malia in the backseat of Argent’s SUV, while Argent and Theo pretend not to hear in the front. It’d be in keeping with the last few such meetings, anyway.

Theo ends up shooing him away from the table to head back to the motel and shower, Theo assuring him first that he’s fine to get the bill—Theo now in possession of his very own card provided by Derek and hooked up to Peter Hale’s apparently inexhaustible bank account—and then to walk the three blocks back so that Scott can take Theo’s truck. He waits until he sees his own tail-lights disappear out the diner’s windows before he looks away, jaw working, and then gets to his feet. Pulling out his wallet, he drops three twenties onto the table and then picks up his coffee mug, drains it as he slides his wallet back into his back pocket. Then he sets his mug back down with a definitive _click_ and starts heading down the aisle between the diner’s closely-packed tables towards the back corner of the room.

“Word of advice,” Theo murmurs once he’s reached it, leaning over the back of the hunter’s chair so that he can speak it directly into the hunter’s ear, one hand on the back of the hunter’s chair and the other on the table, caging the suddenly-rigid man in, “If you’re going to try and follow a bunch of werewolves around, maybe don’t wear the same jacket you’d worn when making a bunch of wolfsbane bullets.”

Tilting his head so that he can meet the hunter’s eyes, Theo smirks at him and then swings around so that he can take the seat opposite him. He makes sure to sprawl his posture wide, legs spread and his left arm draped over the empty chair beside him; the very picture of ease. The hunter’s eyes jump nervously from the tips of Theo’s dangling fingers to the barest hint of teeth behind Theo’s purposefully parted lips, and finally settle on Theo’s—currently human blue—eyes.

“McCall didn’t notice,” The hunter points out; it’s clear he’d been trying for a sneer, but the minute tremble in his voice ruins it, and Theo deliberately widens his grin.

“He’s got a lot on his mind,” Theo answers dismissively, and starts tapping the nail of his left middle finger against the metal back of the diner chair, the hunter’s eyes darting to the motion helplessly, his shoulders tensing further with every ringing hit, “Besides, the point’s going to be moot here, soon.”

The threat strikes home and Theo watches as the hunter’s eyes widen and he makes an aborted move towards the gun—loaded with regular bullets, since the hunter had apparently found a middle ground between being incompetent and being outright _stupid_ —tucked in a holster under his shoulder. Theo just smiles widely and leans even further back, his entire posture one big dare.

“This isn’t Beacon Hills during the Anuk-ite infection,” Theo reminds him quietly, “You pull that out here and now and that off-duty cop sitting at the bar’s going to kill you for me.”

But the hunter doesn’t keep going for his gun, or switch to some other useless, posturing tactic, like Theo would have expected. Instead he just takes in a few deep breaths, exhaling them out slowly through his nose, his hand falling away from his weapon and the spike of fear in his scent slowly leveling out as he forces himself to calm. Theo cocks his head and watches the process closely, curiosity now firmly piqued.

“I’m not here to kill you,” The hunter finally says, and Theo’s already smirking, already ready for whatever B-grade bullshit that’s about to follow, when the hunter continues, “Monroe sent me here to offer you her help with your little jewelry problem.”

It takes every ounce of training and experience Theo has not to stiffen or otherwise betray the spike of shock—and not a little fear, since the absolute last thing he needs is for Monroe to know how to locate him at will via his permanent accessory—that goes bolting through him. He manages it, though, and lets an easy sort of confusion show on his face, shoulders rising and falling and dangling left hand twisting in a full-body sort of shrug.

“‘My little jewelry problem,’” Theo repeats musingly, “Not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

But the hunter just smiles, slow as molasses and just as sweetly satisfied, and replies, “Yeah you do.” Then he pauses and lets his own thoughtful expression take over his face, “Unless you like having that choke-chain around your wrist? Maybe you’ve gotten comfortable being the McCall pack pet.”

Theo manages to keep control of his expression and posture—barely. Purposefully letting the silence drag, Theo keeps the easy smile on his face and studies the hunter—the ill-fitting jacket he’d chosen to cover up his weapon, that only screamed its presence to anyone who knew how to look; the nervous bounce of his right thigh, the constant _tap-tap-tap_ of his shoe against the linoleum loud in Theo’s ears—and finds himself smirking for real, some of his anger and humiliation draining away.

“You’re awfully confident for someone who thought they were going to die thirty seconds ago,” Theo tells him, lets his amusement round his vowels.

The tapping of the hunter’s twitching leg pauses for a split-second—fight-or-flight instincts muscling their way back to the forefront of the hunter’s mind at Theo’s very deliberate reminder of the danger he’s in—but then it picks right back up again as he forces himself to lift his chin, meet Theo’s eyes directly.

“C’mon, Theo,” He coaxes, only the slightest waver to his voice, “I’m telling you that Monroe has a way to cut you loose from your collar, and you don’t even want to hear her out?”

Theo stares at him for a few long, slow seconds, and then he lets an even slower smile curl his lips as he says, “You’re right, I’m being rude. Besides, we should probably wait until that cop finishes his breakfast to wrap this little conversation, so. Please, tell me—in return for ‘cutting me loose,’ what exactly is it that Monroe wants?”

The pulse at the base of the hunter’s throat jumps as he no doubt correctly interprets Theo’s intimation about _wrapping_ their conversation, but he soldiers on admirably. _Where did she find you?,_ Theo finds himself wondering, and then files it away as something else to puzzle at later.

“It’s simple,” The hunter starts, and if it wasn’t for the near-imperceptible break in his voice Theo would think he’s as confident as he sounds, “She wants you to do almost exactly what you’re doing now, with a straightforward addition—you keep her informed of what Scott’s up to.”

Theo absently wonders how many times the hunter practiced his pitch on his way to the diner, no doubt following Scott, Argent, Malia, and Theo from their motel; how many times he mouthed it to himself as he sat and waited for an opportunity to get Theo alone. _A dozen_ , Theo bets, his eyes still on the hunter’s and his smirk still firmly in place. _At the very least_.

“Spy on Scott, huh?” Theo finally murmurs thoughtfully, “So Monroe wants herself a double agent.”

“Sure,” The hunter agrees, and the smirk he gives Theo is just the wrong side of over-confidently conspiratorial as he adds, “That’s what you’re good at, after all, isn’t it?”

This time Theo doesn’t manage to fully clamp down on the surge of anger—and shame—that goes burning through him, but he does manage to redirect it into a single point; his right hand clenching around the base of his cheap diner seat. The action is hidden below the table, but he can feel the metal warp as his fingers curl, can hear it groan; he’s not sure whether the hunter can. He keeps right on grinning at Theo, anyway, and Theo wonders why Monroe chose _this_ hunter—this new, clearly wet-behind-the-ears _idiot_ —to be her messenger, rather than one of her more experienced, capable lieutenants like Rossler, or Richmond.

_She’s playing the table_ , he realizes in the next instant, and finds himself grudgingly impressed. After all, if Theo had killed the hunter without stopping to ask questions—not out of the realm of possibility, since that’d been the first thing that Theo had considered when he’d realized the hunter was there—Monroe would have lost a body, but not an officer. Interrogating him would also be useless, because he clearly doesn’t _know_ anything of value. That knocked out the risk of Theo turning the hunter in to Scott or Argent, too; they wouldn’t be able to get anything out of him, either. And if Theo agreed to her deal, then.

Well.

“Here’s the problem,” Theo tells the hunter, after he’s let the silence linger just long enough for some of the hunter’s misplaced confidence to start twisting right back up into apprehension, “If Monroe actually knew how to get this thing off me, she’d skip the foreplay and just trade me my freedom for killing Scott. Since that’s not what she’s asking, she doesn’t actually know.”

The hunter’s eyes go wide and his mouth falls open slightly, his body instinctively recoiling from the table; caught. _Should’ve sent Richmond_ , Theo thinks, and smirks as he says:

“I would say to tell her nice try, but she’s going to have to infer the message from your corpse.”

He pushes back his chair, preparing to stand—the cop is still at the bar but this won’t be the first time that Theo has silently killed someone in front of witnesses, law enforcement or otherwise—but the hunter just jerks back a few frantic inches, his hand immediately darting into one of his pockets and pulling out a heavily-creased piece of paper that he then holds out, his fingers shaking minutely. Theo pauses, still seated, but doesn’t reach out to take it, instead raising his eyebrows in the hunter’s direction.

“And that is?” He asks, makes sure to sound just on the edge of disinterested.

“The first part of the spell that creates a tracking bracelet like that,” The hunter answers, his voice shaking, too, as he holds the paper out even more insistently.

Theo gives it another few seconds and then deliberately reaches forward with his braceleted left wrist, takes the paper. He keeps his eyes on the hunter’s until he’s got it right in front of him, and then he slowly unfolds it, one-handed, and feels his jaw work as he glances down at it. It’s cheap printer paper but Theo recognizes the photo-copied symbols—he’s sure as shit etched them enough times on his own wrist, the act of tracing them with his right thumb so ingrained now as to almost be habit—and he recognizes the first few ingredients—the rest of the list likely deliberately cut off—from Deaton’s work table the night Argent had taken him to the animal clinic to get his bracelet put on.

“Fine,” Theo tells the hunter, bringing his right hand forward to fold the paper once, and then again, before tapping it against the table, “Let me rephrase. If Monroe knew the _full spell_ to get this thing off me, she’d skip the foreplay. My point stands.”

But the hunter just swallows and rolls his shoulders back as he says, “Monroe got the first part from Gerard back when they were working together, but he didn’t really care about _freeing_ the supernaturals he’d collared; the rest of the spell never mattered.”

“But?” Theo prompts when the hunter pauses, still _tap-tap-tapping_ the paper against the table, the hunter’s stiffened shoulders jumping in time.

“She inherited all his books, materials. As long as she dedicates... _appropriate resources_ to the search, she’ll be able to find the remainder,” The hunter concludes, obviously parroting lines that he’d been given.

_Appropriate resources_ , Theo repeats silently; the carrot and the stick. But out-loud he just corrects, “She _thinks_ she’ll be able to find the remainder.”

The hunter just shrugs, “No worse odds than your chances that Argent actually plans to let you go at the end of all this.” Then he smiles, some of that same overconfidence creeping back into his voice as he adds, “Better than, maybe.”

Theo gives him a lazy, too-sharp smile in return, and watches in satisfaction as the hunter’s lips slowly flatten and his shoulders start to round again, the bitter tang of fear starting to edge back into his scent as his bravado falters.

Humming thoughtfully, Theo leans back in his chair, left arm rising to drape over the empty chair beside him once more, the piece of folded-up paper pinched between his index and middle fingers.

“So let me get this straight,” Theo says, the hunter’s eyes flicking to his watchfully, “I agree to spy for Monroe, be her double-agent. In return, she finds the rest of the spell that would enable me to get this—what was the term you used? Choke-chain?—off of me.” Theo pauses, studies the hunter for a few beats, then adds, “I assume the catch is that her efforts to locate the rest of the spell will be directly proportional to the quality of my information.”

“That’s only fair, don’t you think?” The hunter replies, trying for flippant but missing by about a mile.

“And Monroe is so very concerned with _fairness_ ,” Theo murmurs, but waves a silencing hand when the hunter goes to respond.

They sit in silence for the next thirty seconds, the buzz of the diner moving around them, Theo’s and Scott’s old waitress noticing Theo’s new seat and making a move to come over that Theo stops with a friendly shake of his head and a mouthed _old_ _friend_. Then he turns back to the hunter—whose steadily-ratcheting-up anxiety had started to outright _burn_ in Theo’s nose—and smirks.

“Considering the circumstances surrounding the last time we met, I’m not exactly inclined to take Monroe’s word on faith,” Theo tells the hunter finally, and deliberately growls a sub-vocal warning when the hunter goes to respond, the hunter blanching and snapping his mouth shut, “So if we’re going to make this deal, I’m going to need something else in addition to some starry-eyed promise to _do her best_ to find the rest of the spell.”

“And what’s that?” The hunter asks hesitantly, his initial burst of satisfaction at the implication of Theo’s acceptance turning into wariness as he realizes it comes with a catch.

“I do this for Monroe, I’m not exactly going to be able to show up to Alan Deaton’s animal clinic and ask him to perform the counter-spell, whether I have the rest of it or not.” Theo explains, “Gerard would have had a list of more...mercenary-minded druids who would have been willing to help someone like him out. Before I tell Monroe so much as Scott’s favorite color, I want that list.”

The hunter works his jaw for a few seconds—he obviously hadn’t come here expecting a counter-offer, and Monroe hadn’t bothered to prepare him because she’d clearly thought it more likely than not that Theo would kill him—but then he stills and nods once, sharply, “Fine.”

And then—Theo having to clench every muscle in his body to stop from laughing out-loud—he sticks one hand over the table in a clear invitation to shake on it. He’d offered his right, but Theo just grins and deliberately brings his braceleted left hand forward—the paper transferred to his right hand—and holds that out, instead. After a beat of hesitation, the hunter switches hands and grasps Theo’s, pumping once.

“Okay,” He says, once he’s—quickly—taken his hand back, his body unconsciously curving forward over the table as his scent spikes with excitement, “Okay, so—”

“No,” Theo shuts him down, the hunter cutting off with a poleaxed look, “I told you. Before I tell Monroe—or any of her _lackeys_ —shit, I want that list of druids.”

The hunter just stares at him, his mouth opening and closing several times, stuck. When he realizes that Theo is apparently dead-serious, though, he leans back, looking almost—deflated. Theo lets an unkind smirk unfurl across his mouth and just climbs slowly, leisurely to his feet, takes a few steps forward until he’s standing right by the hunter’s side, the hunter stiffening.

“Give Monroe my regards, and tell her that while she’s dedicating _appropriate resources_ to finding my list of druids, I’ll be helping Scott keep gathering more and more allies to put her and all her followers in the ground,” He pauses, tilts his head as he looks down at the hunter and then reaches over with one hand to pat the hunter’s cheek condescendingly as he says, “Like you,” and starts to walk away, his purposefully-clawed hand dragging lightly across the hunter’s face as he goes.

He’s tucked into the corner of a shadowed alcove down the street ten minutes later when the hunter comes out of the diner and beelines it straight for an unassuming dark gray sedan parked in the diner’s lot. Theo notes the license plate, sharpens his hearing as the hunter all but throws himself into the car and reverses, tires squealing, out of the parking lot, and takes off down the road towards the nearest highway. _Heading north_ , Theo estimates, his ears just managing to catch the hunter saying _hey, it’s me_ into his phone before he gets too far away and Theo loses him to distance.

Theo’s unbothered by that, though. Taking the folded-up piece of paper out of his jacket pocket where he’d tucked it alongside his sister’s, Josh’s, and Tracy’s photos, he carefully straightens it. Ignoring the spell and the symbols drawn on the page—the twins to those etched onto Argent’s bracelet—he slides free the second, thinner piece of paper that must have gotten tangled-up with the printout in the hunter’s pocket without him realizing. He keeps hold of that second paper as he refolds the spell and tucks it back into his pocket, then smooths flat the second paper between his thumbs and forefingers, staring down at it.

_Hello, Michael Heidenrich_ , Theo thinks silently, his mouth curving in a wide, satisfied smirk as his eyes flick over the receipt before finally settling on _Guthrie Petroleum, 325 Naples St, Mendota, CA. 93640_.

_It was_ very _nice to meet you_.

\---

Theo has already finished dipping his keycard and is halfway into pushing his motel room door open when Argent sticks his head out of his room two doors down and barks, “Theo, get in here.”

Giving his door a supremely dry look that neither it nor anyone else is able to properly appreciate, Theo sighs, reclaims his keycard, and then slides it into his back pocket as he pivots and heads towards Argent’s room, letting his own door swing back shut. When he gets there he sees that Argent has positioned the metal loop of the manual lock inside his room between the door jamb and the door so that it can’t close, so Theo slips inside, knocking the lock back to its usual position as he goes so that the door automatically shuts behind him.

“Where’s the fire?” Theo asks once it clicks closed, “We don’t have to meet the Glaeser pack for another two hours.”

Argent just gestures him over to where he’s braced above the room’s tiny desk, a fold-out map of California—which had appeared like magic from Argent’s Mary Poppins vehicle the instant they’d realized they’d needed one—spread across it. Theo heads over and then comes to a stop just off Argent’s right shoulder, starts studying the marks that he doesn’t immediately recognize from the last time he’d seen it; he has to carefully slide one of Argent’s handguns—which he’d been cleaning before he’d been interrupted, based on the smell of gun oil—out of the way to see the upper-right corner.

“I just got off the phone with Annabelle. One of her allied packs picked something up in Medford, she just sent two of her betas to go check it out,” Argent explains, tapping two fingers over Redding and then sliding them up, following Highway 5 to Medford itself.

“Medford, huh,” Theo murmurs, left arm crossing over his chest and right elbow bracing on it, his right thumb tapping at his teeth, “That’s pretty far north.”

Very _far north_ , Theo thinks, his eyes flicking down to Mendota, situated several hundred miles _south_.

“Farther north than anything else we’ve picked up,” Argent agrees, frowning thoughtfully at the map and then looking back up at Theo, “You think it’s a bust?”

Theo drags his gaze back up from Mendota to Medford, studies the surrounding area, thumb now rubbing back and forth across his bottom lip. After half a minute or so of careful consideration, though, he just sighs and blows out a long, slow breath.

“I think we don’t have enough information,” Theo finally replies, spinning some on his heel so that he can drop down into the armchair next to the desk, bracing an elbow against the chair’s arm and his head against his fist as he tilts a look at Argent, “I think the western United States is a frustratingly big place.”

It doesn’t fully register that he’d used his left arm as the brace until Argent’s gaze drops to his bracelet and back up. The atmosphere in the room tightens some, Theo’s shoulders ratcheting up and Argent’s jaw working, but Argent turns back to the map without saying anything, and Theo drops his arm back into his lap, covers the bracelet with his right hand. If he shifts he can feel the prick of the folded-up spell in his pocket, can hear the paper crinkle; he swallows, and purposefully stays still.

“She was in Chemult immediately after fleeing Beacon Hills, we know that,” Argent eventually states, tapping at the tiny _Chemult_ label on the map, “She headed east after that, towards Idaho, that’s how the Denio pack picked her up—”

“Why Chemult?” Theo suddenly interrupts, a thought striking him as he glances up at Argent. He’s not really seeing Argent, though; he’s back at the diner and seeing Michael Heidenrich as he says _she inherited all of his books, materials_.

Argent tilts his head to meet Theo’s eyes, brow furrowing, “Why not Chemult? It’s a straight shot up Highway 97 from Beacon Hills. She may have just gotten her people on the road and kept driving.”

“Sure, fine,” Theo agrees impatiently, pushing himself to his feet and stepping back over to the map, pointing to the various highways as he says in turn, “But why not south on Interstate 5, then? Or west on Highway 36? Northeast California, Southeast Oregon, and Northwest Nevada are all crawling with werewolf packs because of the forest reserves, and _old_ packs at that. Why not go south, towards the more populated cities, where there are less national parks and other areas that most werewolf packs need to survive? Where there are less werewolves that could be a threat, period?”

He can practically see the wheels start turning in Argent’s head as Argent looks up at Theo from where he’d been following Theo’s gesturing fingers.

“She’s new to hunting, she didn’t know,” Argent theorizes, but it _is_ just a theory; an invitation for Theo to counter, to offer a better explanation.

Theo just raises his eyebrows skeptically, “With all the time she spent with your father? Something like that is Werewolf Hunting 101.”

Argent doesn’t say anything immediately, just drops his eyes back to the map and studies it for a few long, slow seconds before he concludes softly, “There was something in Chemult. In Chemult, or close enough to it that she’d wind up there.”

“And something in Denio, or close enough to it,” Theo adds, now watching Argent’s face closely as Argent’s eyes flick, flick, flick over the map; _bingo_ , he thinks, as Argent’s expression goes from evaluating to sharp.

He’s just about to open his mouth when someone bangs loudly at Argent’s door and Malia yells, “Theo, Scott’s freaking out that he’s forgotten everyone’s names and like, favorite childhood memory or whatever.” Theo can just hear Scott protest _that’s an exaggeration_ —though Scott does, in fact, sound completely freaked out—as Malia continues, “You need to come work your weird political encyclopedia magic and get him to calm down.”

Theo glances up at Argent, as outside the door Scott continues to try and defend his honor, muttering _I just couldn’t remember if Nathaniel and Jyoti get along, it’s not that big of a deal_. Beside Theo, Argent is trying and mostly failing not to let an amused smirk onto his face, and Theo grins at him.

“I had ten minutes before we actually got to the meeting,” Theo tells him, and Argent loses the battle against his smirk.

“I had the second we got in the car, so we were both wrong,” Argent replies, and Theo laughs and goes to open the door.

Scott does fine. Scott does _better_ than fine, actually, Nina breaking out into a startled, genuine peal of laughter two hours later as she and Scott perform that awkward, initial two-packs-meeting dance, Scott grinning widely and scratching at the back of his neck at the sound. Stood behind him with Argent and Malia, Theo feels some of the tension start to drain from his muscles, tags the same happening to Malia as her twitching fingers still, to Argent as his scent loses the hot edge of instinctive adrenaline that’d been lining it. Across from them, Nathaniel throws an arm around his wife’s shoulders and sticks a hand out for Scott to shake, and that’s it; the wary atmosphere cracks and crumbles and the rest of the Glaeser pack relaxes, too.

“Well, that went surprisingly well,” Argent murmurs to Theo ten minutes later, the two of them waiting by Argent’s SUV for Scott and Malia to finish talking animatedly with Nathaniel—Nina beside him looking and smelling tolerantly amused—so that they can follow the Glaeser pack back to Nina’s and Nathaniel’s house, keep talking there, “He seemed less nervous than Sacramento and Denio, anyway. What exactly did you say to him?”

Theo just smirks, eyes on Scott’s easy movements and his open, guileless expression, and answers, “I told him if he kept trying to act like some kind of slick politician, he was going to come off like a robot. I told him to be himself.”

Argent just raises a single eyebrow and says, “What, dopey charm?”

Theo just manages to cover his laugh with a cough, bringing one hand up to scratch at his nose to cover his grin as Scott and Malia—conversation over, apparently—turn and start trotting towards them.

“Your words, not mine,” He mutters to Argent, and only catches Argent’s quiet, amused snort because he deliberately listens for it as he straightens and pivots to pull open the passenger door.

An hour later and Theo’s sitting alone in one of the strangely comfortable patio chairs surrounding the Glaesers’ concrete fire pit, the area located at the edge of Nina and Nathaniel’s massive backyard and overlooking a frankly spectacular view of Lake Tahoe. He can’t focus on the postcard perfect vista, though, his phone buzzing like a hornet against his thigh as he argues back and forth with Liam over—Theo isn’t actually sure what. It’d started with Liam asking a question about his history homework and had spiraled quickly.

That said, Theo doesn’t have any intention of _losing_ the argument.

He’s in the middle of typing out a particularly scathing reply to Liam when his ears tag the approaching crunch of footsteps and he flares his nostrils, instincts snapping taut. Almost instantly he catches Malia’s scent and he relaxes, tilting his head back against his chair so that he can watch her as she comes into view.

“Scott and Argent finished telling the others why we’re here and everything, and now Nina’s making them go back and walk through exactly how all this started,” Malia explains as she drops into a chair next to Theo, limbs sprawled wide, “In like, exhaustive detail.”

_And you didn’t want to have to relive it_. _Again_ , Theo thinks, but out-loud he just says, “Smart woman. Know thy enemy, and all that.”

Malia flaps a hand in his direction, _yes whatever_. They’re silent for a few seconds until Theo’s phone vibrates with a text—Theo having left off mid-reply and probably driving Liam nuts with the infuriating dot-dot-dot symbol of the other person still typing—and Malia looks over curiously.

“Liam,” Theo tells her dryly, waggling his phone, and she smirks and turns her head back forward, out towards the shimmering surface of the lake.

Theo finishes taping out his response and then locks his phone, tosses it down between his legs as he leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. Down on the water a heron swoops low and then wings back upwards, a wriggling fish caught in its beak. The fall wind is biting even through Theo’s jacket but he finds himself unbothered by it, the fresh air after the stench of the city feeling like its scouring his lungs clean.

“Why’d you come out here when we got here, anyway?” Malia suddenly asks, glancing back over at him, “Isn’t that the type of diplomatic insult that you’re always warning Scott about?”

Theo just exhales out heavily and looks away from her, “It would have been if Scott or you or Argent had done it. Me, though…”

He trails off, chest twisting. Malia must catch the change in his scent because she turns further on her side to better see him, her brow furrowing. There’s no graceful way out of it—and Theo, oddly, finds himself not really wanting to try to find one anyway—and so he just grimaces and tells her:

“Nina isn’t Quentin, but I’m still—” _the reason that Ailene and Anthony Storo, and a whole lot of other people, are dead_ , “—who I am. There’s no need to put her in a bad position. Scott and Argent know where to find me if they need me.”

He flinches immediately after he says it. He hadn’t meant Argent’s bracelet when he’d phrased it like that, but. Luckily Malia seems to attribute it to his stated reason and not anything else, her curious expression smoothing out as she accepts his explanation and turns back forward. Theo finds himself reaching out to her scent, picking at its tangled edges automatically, and stops himself; if she wanted him to know what she was thinking, feeling, she could tell him. She _would_ tell him, he thinks, lips flickering in a brief grin.

“Scott wishes you were there,” Malia tells him suddenly, Theo looking over at her in surprise, but she isn’t looking at him, and her voice is just flat; just stating fact, “He remembers all the stuff you tell him better when you’re there. Or he thinks he does, anyway.”

Theo doesn’t know what to say, but Malia is Malia, and probably wasn’t looking for a response or a reaction when she’d said it; it was just true, so she’d told him. Dragging his gaze away from her, Theo ends up looking down at his lap; at Argent’s bracelet wrapped around his left wrist, at his phone buzzing and lighting up with another text—another _several_ texts—from Liam.

He’s still staring at his phone, debating picking it up—his whole train of thought feels derailed, off-track, thoughts piling up like railroad cars—when Malia blows out a breath and looks at him.

“Do _I_ need to go back inside?” She asks, and Theo doesn’t know why he’s so thrown by the simplicity of her question until he realizes that if he told her _yes_ , she’d go; no further questions asked or arguments needed.

“No,” He tells her after a beat, “No, you’re fine.”

“Great,” She mutters, and settles down deeper into her chair.

When Theo looks over at her fifteen minutes later, she’s sound asleep. He stares at her, stunned—his eyes drifting helplessly to her exposed belly, the exact place where he’d _shot her_ once—and then he swallows and looks away, back at the water, back at his phone in his hand and Liam’s latest text. _Seriously_ , He finally types back in response to Liam’s but-how-is-everything-going- _really_ inquiry, _Everything’s going fine_.

After a second he sends a picture of the sunset, the sky lit up in brilliant shades of orange and red as the sun goes down over the water, as his closing argument.

\---

Liam isn’t at Theo’s apartment when Theo walks in two days later, but he does pop up within the fifteen minute mark of Theo’s arrival, Theo stood staring, absolutely baffled, at the houseplant sitting on his windowsill.

“That was locked,” Theo points out as Liam steps inside and rolls the door back shut, though he doesn’t bother turning around.

“Derek gave me a key,” Liam answers dismissively, and adds insult to injury by re-locking the door behind himself, “I told him I was responsible for watering your houseplant while you were away.”

This time Theo _does_ turn to look at him incredulously, “I didn’t _have_ a houseplant the last time I was here.”

“I know,” Liam all but chirps, sounding irritatingly pleased with himself, “But it really pulls the room together, don’t you think? I call it Phil.”

“Phil,” Theo repeats disbelievingly, Liam coming to stand next to him to stare at the houseplant—at Phil, apparently—alongside him.

“Phil,” Liam agrees, and from the shit-eating grin on his face as he claps Theo on the shoulder and then heads for the futon, he knows how much of a, well—little shit he’s being.

“Is this like the lamp?” Theo asks as he gives up on staring at Phil—at the _houseplant_ —and pivots to face Liam, “Or the nightstand?”

“First off,” Liam starts, dropping down onto the futon and tucking his arms behind his head, legs stretched out before him, “That ‘nightstand’ is a wooden produce box from Costco that I rescued from Ms. McCall. You’re the one who started using it to pile your weird collection of paperbacks on.”

“You’re the one who _brought it over_ ,” Theo counters exasperatedly, as he—for lack of anything better to do, and also for lack of other furniture—goes to join Liam on the futon, “And maybe if you ever bothered to pick up a book, they wouldn’t be such strange, foreign objects to you.”

He makes sure to kick Liam’s ankle pointedly as he says the last bit, which has the added bonus of freeing up some extra space on the futon when Liam jerks bodily and swears. Theo claims the additional room as he sits, though his cunning plan backfires a bit when Liam just stubbornly resettles exactly where he’d been before he’d been disturbed, putting him and Theo nearly thigh to thigh. Rolling his eyes, Theo just crosses his arms over his chest and leans back with a heavy sigh, lets his head go lax against the top of the futon.

“You’re not hiding another life-threatening injury, are you?” Liam asks, eying Theo probingly. He manages to sound off-hand but his scent gives him away, the slightest anxious thread shooting through it.

“What, trying to get me to take my shirt off again?” Theo replies, and grins when Liam scoffs and punches him in the arm; his scent clears, though, “I’m fine. Just tired.”

Liam hums, settling down some; settling down enough that his shoulder is pressing lightly against Theo’s, “You guys were in Carson City longer than I thought you were going to be. Did you find something?”

Theo smothers his body’s instinct to flinch, to stiffen—he’d hidden the folded-up spell in one of the loose inside door panels of his truck—and nods.

“Argent recognized a pattern in the locations that Monroe had been hitting,” Theo explains, gaze on the bare brick wall in front of him but his mind’s eye on Michael Heidenrich in that diner as he’d said _she inherited all his books, materials_ , on Argent’s face after Theo had asked him _why Chemult_ , “His father had a ton of hideouts, weapon caches, that kind of thing, scattered across the country. There was one near Carson City.”

Liam stiffens and turns to stare at him, one hand on the back of the futon and the other clenching around the edge of the cushion below him, “Did you—”

“She wasn’t there,” Theo cuts him off gently, the sour taste of Liam’s anticipation—and at the core of that, his grief, Brett and Lori Talbot’s ghosts still hovering forever around him—burning his lungs, “But she _had_ been. The place was cleared out of anything valuable—” Including spellbooks, of course, “—but it proves Argent’s theory.”

Understanding dawns on Liam, “You know where she’s going.”

“We’ve at least got a list of likely targets,” Theo answers, “It’s better than just chasing rumor and lucky sightings like we have been.”

Liam exhales out and relaxes back down, his knee now digging into Theo’s thigh from his half-twisted position but Theo too unconcerned—and tired—to make him move it. That ends up being something of a mistake, though, since his sudden indifference to Liam’s invasion of his personal space causes Liam to squint at him suspiciously.

“When was the last time you ate?” Liam demands after a few seconds, poking Theo in the arm.

Theo shrugs off Liam’s finger with a glare, “I don’t know, probably before we left Carson City to head back.”

“Which was…?” Liam presses, poking him again.

Theo grabs his finger and twists it, just a little, in a pointed warning before he lets it go, “Eleven, maybe? We ate at the Glaesers’ before doing one last check of the city, and then got on the road.”

“So you haven’t eaten in like eight hours, is what you’re saying,” Liam interprets, rolling his eyes and pushing himself to his feet.

Once he’s standing he gestures impatiently for Theo to get to his feet, too, and makes an annoyed face when Theo doesn’t so much as budge.

“So I haven’t eaten in a while, so what?” Theo says, deliberately settling further into the futon and stretching out as he does so; there’s really no point to fighting Liam on the matter, except that he gets a probably perverse amount of pleasure out of annoying him. Which, Liam bought him a _plant_ , so.

“You smell like a depleted battery,” Liam finally explains, irritation thick in his voice, “Which is exactly how Derek smells when he forgets to eat because he’s sad about Lydia and Stiles being back on the east coast for school and won’t admit it. You’re hungry, Theo. You need to eat.”

Theo just frowns at him, a little thrown, “Why do you know what Derek smells like when he’s hungry?”

Liam just sighs longsufferingly and looks heavenward, then replies, “I’ve started running patrols with him, when I don’t have practice or homework or whatever.” Then he makes a deliberately overacted _get up_ gesture and repeats, “You need to eat. C’mon, let’s go.”

“Go where, my kitchen?” Theo demands, but he does it while pushing himself to his feet, so, “In case you’ve forgotten, I don’t have any food.”

Liam gives him a _supremely_ unimpressed look, “Of course you don’t have any food, you caveman. You don’t even have silverware. Or _plates_. We’ll go to my house, my dad was planning on grilling and he always makes enough to feed a horse.”

Theo blinks, caught off-guard at the unexpected invitation, but luckily his ability to be an ass is so ingrained as to almost be automatic and he manages to say, “Or, you know, feed _you_ ,” with a smarmy grin that immediately earns him another punch to the arm.

He follows Liam without argument, though, and even lets Liam give him a ride in his death-trap of an ancient SUV. He’s not sure why; he spends the ride running his right thumb over Argent’s bracelet, and has to consciously shove away the memory of Michael Heidenrich’s smirking mouth as he’d said _maybe you’ve gotten comfortable being the McCall pack pet_. Or he has to consciously shove away the memory until Liam gives him a sly grin and makes some comment about his delicate constitution, and then he’s too busy giving as good as he gets to think about it.

When they get to the Geyer-Dunbar household, Dr. Geyer has in fact grilled enough food to feed not just a horse, but himself, his wife, Theo, _and_ Liam. Neither he nor Jenna Geyer bat an eye at Theo’s unannounced appearance, just direct him to the appropriate cabinets and drawers to grab a plate and silverware and then load him up. Theo doesn’t realize how hungry he’d actually been until he starts eating and immediately feels about ten times more alert, Liam giving him a pointed look from across the table; Theo just raises his hand to scratch at his nose with his middle finger, Liam smothering a guffaw in his arm.

He and Liam wind up in the Geyer-Dunbar living room after dinner, Liam sprawled out across the couch and Theo lazily sat back against the loveseat, some mindless movie on TV. Theo had thought about demanding Liam take him back—the least Liam could do after practically kidnapping him to feed him—but the house had been warm with the smell of good food, and Liam’s family, and just plain _warmth_ , and Theo had found himself just—not really wanting to go back to his cold and all-but-empty apartment. So he’d let Liam drag him into the living room, deposit him on the loveseat; he’d stayed, glancing over at Liam as he’d draped himself over the couch and started flicking through the channels.

They both fall asleep, unsurprisingly. Mrs. Geyer wakes them both up around midnight, and gives her son a dry look when he sits up, groaning, and mutters _I should have let you drive yourself over here_ to Theo. Shaking her head, she flicks Liam in the forehead when Liam attempts to settle back down on the couch, and then turns and shares a commiserating look with Theo.

“Considering that you’d be taking your life into your own hands if you got in the car with my son right now, why don’t you just stay here?” She says after a beat, quirking him a small, soft smile, and blissfully ignoring Liam’s indignant noise, “Guest bedroom’s the second door on the right upstairs, Liam can show you where the extra toothbrushes are.”

Offer made, she drops a kiss on Liam’s forehead—Liam half-assedly resisting as she does so—and walks away, towards the stairs to the second floor. Theo stares after her, and doesn’t realize that he must not be doing a good job of keeping his surprise to himself until Liam suddenly throws one of the couch pillows at him.

“She offered to let you stay the night, Theo, not the British Crown Jewels. Stop being weird,” Liam orders as he scooches forward and then pushes himself, wobbling, to his feet.

Theo—who’d caught the pillow instinctively—pelts it back at him, “I’m not being weird.”

Liam yelps when the pillow strikes him right in the middle of the chest—he clearly hadn’t been expecting the return volley—then counters, bending down to pick the pillow up from the floor where it’d fallen and toss it back onto the couch as he does, “Tell that to your _face_.”

The extra toothbrushes are under the sink, apparently, and the guest bedroom sheets have the slightly stale smell of having been put on and then forgotten about. It’s a fact that Theo notices but barely registers, laying underneath them some time later and staring up at the dark ceiling. He keeps trying to pull his right hand away from his left wrist—away from Argent’s bracelet—but it never lasts, his fingers drifting back and beginning to trace the symbols etched into the leather again and again.

Eventually he gives up and just lets it happen, lets his eyes keep drifting to his jacket, draped over the chair tucked into one of the guest bedroom’s corners, the photographs of his sister, Josh, and Tracy tucked safely into its right pocket. He gives up and lets his ears keep straining for the sound of the Geyers’ heartbeats, of Liam’s; he gives up and lets his nostrils keep flaring, the better to breathe deep the comforting scent of the full house.

He spends the next morning in the kitchen with Mrs. Geyer, calmly drinking a cup of coffee at the table, while upstairs Liam runs around in a near-panic, irrecoverably late for school and yet somehow convinced that he’s going to be able to make it to first period on time. Mrs. Geyer leans back against the counter, eyes on the ceiling and the sound of frantic footsteps pounding across it, hands around her own cup of coffee and a tolerant, resigned sort of amusement on her face. Finally she takes a sip of her coffee and then sighs, drops her gaze down to look at Theo.

“Why don’t you and I help rescue Liam from himself, and I’ll give you a ride back home on my way to work?” She proposes.

The corner of Theo’s mouth quirks up in a grin—his ears catching a sudden swear from upstairs—as he says, “Sure.”

He checks his mail on the way up to his apartment after Mrs. Geyer drops him off, more because the postal worker who delivers their mail gets irritated and complains to Derek—who then gets irritated with Theo and does things like give Liam a key to Theo’s apartment—when Theo lets his box get too stuffed with junk mail, than any actual expectation that he’s received anything worthwhile. Absently flicking through it as he shoulders open the door to the stairs and starts heading up to the third floor, Theo has to deliberately clamp down on his instinctive reaction when he comes across an unlabeled white envelope, no stamp or addresses of any kind on it, in the mix.

It doesn’t smell like wolfsbane—Theo’s lips flicker in a vindictive smirk as he thinks about his warning to Michael Heidenrich—but it does smell like gunpowder, and the same brand of gun oil that Chris Argent uses; a family tradition, apparently, passed from Gerard to Monroe. Jaw working, Theo folds the envelope into the rest of his junk mail and finishes heading up to his apartment.

Once inside, he throws the junk mail into his recycling bin—something else that had randomly appeared in his apartment in-between trips, which probably means Liam is responsible—and throws his jacket over the back of the futon, then pivots so that he can sit, envelope in hand. He spends maybe half a minute playing with it, fingers running over and over its smooth surface. _Her people were here_ , he thinks, staring at the blank white space of it; without an address or postage, one of Monroe’s goons had to have dropped it off, by hand, in his mailbox.

_We know where you live_ , the empty face of the envelope means, _We can get to you even in Beacon Hills_.

Shoving those thoughts aside, Theo clenches his jaw and turns it over, slits it open using his thumb under the sealed-down flap. The paper inside is basic computer stock, folded twice and containing nothing but a list of eight type-written names. Theo studies them, the paper held loosely in his hands and elbows braced on his spread knees. Some of the names are familiar—the Dread Doctors had occasionally made use of the most mercenary-minded of the already mercenary-minded druids in their work—but some of them aren’t, and Theo reads the full list, over and over, until he has it memorized.

Then he stands, list in hand, and heads up his weirdly impractical spiral staircase to shower. He stops on the way at his air mattress, at the wooden-produce-box-turned-nightstand beside it, and reaches for the lamp that Liam had rescued from his parents’ basement and brought over because, quote, _your overhead lights are obnoxiously bright_ , Theo’s pointed observation that Liam shouldn’t be spending enough time in his apartment to _have_ an opinion on the lighting notwithstanding. Setting the lampshade aside, Theo unscrews the bulb and then, rolling Monroe’s list into a thin cylinder, drops it inside.

Twenty minutes later, lamp reassembled and shower done, Theo is downstairs toweling his hair dry, mind whirring through the plausible excuses he could give the Sheriff for needing access to the station’s driver’s license database, when he catches sight of Liam’s ridiculous plant. _I call it Phil_ , he hears Liam say again, Theo’s mind’s eye pulling up a perfect memory of Liam’s shit-eating grin. Theo pauses mid-scrub of his towel over his head and gives the plant an immensely dry look.

He waters it before he leaves for the station, though.

\---

Two weeks later, through a series of events that Theo is present for but _still_ doesn’t fully understand, he ends up alone in the kitchen of the Yreka pack alpha’s sprawling ranch house, sat on a barstool at the giant granite island and watching the woman herself chop vegetables.

Theo lasts exactly five minutes into the resulting small talk, and then his instincts—screeching about how not even the Dread Doctors would risk coming anywhere near Yreka and Shohreh Khorasani’s pack—win out over his better sense, “All due respect, ma’am, but Scott’s the best person for you to talk to. I’m just—”

“I know who you are, Mr. Raeken. More importantly, perhaps, I know who you used to serve,” Shohreh cuts him off calmly, and not even Theo’s long years of training and experience can stop him from immediately going rigid, his breath freezing in his chest.

Shohreh ignores his reaction and just continues to chop, her hands and the flashing knife making quick work of the pile of onions, potatoes, and garlic laid out before her. Theo watches, stunned, and doesn’t know what to do. After Chemult keeping his identity a secret was pretty much a lost cause—the Glaeser pack wasn’t the only one Quentin called—but it’d mattered less than it could have, since Theo had never been left _alone_ with any of the packs after that first clusterfuck of a meeting; it’d never been discussed, but Scott and Argent had just—never allowed it.

Except apparently they’d all gotten complacent these last few weeks, and Shohreh had expertly plucked their strings; none of them had even _thought_ about it this time. _Fuck_ , Theo thinks, and can’t stop his pulse from picking up, or the prick of his claws wanting to lengthen.

“Calm down, Mr. Raeken,” Shohreh suddenly orders, and Theo jerks and looks up at her, eyes wide. She’s set the knife down and has her hands braced on either side of the cutting board, her eyes a burning, burnished red, “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

It’s not exactly the most comforting thing Theo’s ever heard, but it’s probably the best he’s going to get. That, and Shohreh’s scent when he catches a lungful of it is level, no anger or grief or any other indicator of a hidden motive. So Theo makes himself listen to her; he closes his eyes and breathes deep, and keeps breathing deep until his pulse steadies. Then he opens his eyes and meets Shohreh’s, still flared red.

She holds his gaze for just long enough to be sure she has his attention, and then she blinks—the alpha red fading—and looks back down at her ingredients, picks her knife back up. Theo exhales out a shaky breath and waits.

“Quentin is a brute, but I’m not sure I can blame him for what he did to you,” She finally tells him as she resumes chopping, and Theo flinches, “You and your former masters destroyed the beating heart of the Chemult pack when you killed Ailene and Anthony.”

Theo stares at her, taken aback, “You knew about the Dread Doctors.”

Most didn’t, after all. Theo, yes: he’d almost always been the smiling face, the lure for the eventual trap. But few if any ever found out the _why_ of his betrayal; few of them ever survived that long. But Shohreh just hums an affirmative and says:

“The Dread Doctors were always a problem that the leaders of the supernatural community never managed to solve. They were too good at cleaning up after themselves.” Then she pauses and glances up at him, amends shrewdly, “Or you were too good at cleaning up after them.”

Theo has to look away from her, his chest clenching and expression twisting; he can still feel her eyes on the side of his face, though.

After a long few seconds, she continues, “By the time we’d get wind of where the Doctors were, they—and you—had moved on. All we could ever do was try to help salvage whatever was left behind.”

Eyes still on granite counter in front of him, Theo shifts so that he can press the meat of his right arm against his ribs; it drives the edges of the photographs in his pocket harder against his side, the corners pricking at his skin even through the layers of cloth.

“And then they went to Beacon Hills,” Shohreh murmurs thoughtfully, and Theo finds his gaze pulled back to her helplessly, finds her studying him, knife once more laid flat on the cutting board and arms braced once again. After a few beats, Theo forcing himself not to look away, she reaches for a metal bowl sat on the counter and starts sweeping the chopped vegetables into it as she confides, “The stories we heard were quite wild, Mr. Raeken. Fact and fantasy so tangled up together that tugging the truth loose became impossible. The only thing we were sure of in the aftermath was that the Dread Doctors were finally dead.”

She turns and takes the few steps necessary to reach the stove, sets the bowl of vegetables aside. With quick, practiced movements, she lights the burner underneath a large pot and coats the bottom of it with oil, stands and watches it for a long minute until apparently satisfied, and then dumps the contents of the bowl into the pot. Picking up a wooden spoon, she pokes and prods at the simmering vegetables for a few seconds, and then sets the spoon back down and turns back to Theo.

“So what changed in Beacon Hills, Mr. Raeken?” Shohreh asks, posture and expression easy, curious, but shot through with steel; Theo swallows.

There are a lot of ways to answer Shohreh’s question, and Theo drops his head back down, stares sightlessly at the countertop as he thinks through them. _The Dread Doctors murdered dozens of people, and I helped them_ , he thinks of saying. _They promised me a pack and so I infected the McCall pack like a cancer and ripped them apart_ , is on the tip of his tongue. But in the end the most honest explanation of what happened is also the simplest, and so Theo inhales in a deep breath and looks back up at Shohreh as he answers:

“They got what they wanted.”

“Ah, yes. Their perfect killer,” Shohreh replies, no small amount of derision in her raspy, accented voice. Then she looks past Theo—towards the front door and where Scott, Argent, Malia, and her handful of betas had disappeared—and muses, “They seem to have underestimated our Mr. McCall, though.”

_Don’t we all_ , Theo thinks, watching as Shohreh makes a thoughtful face and then straightens, turns back to the cooking vegetables. She picks up the wooden spoon and stirs them once more before picking up a bowl of chicken stock, from its smell, and pouring it into the pot. That done, she uses the spoon to mix the pot’s new contents and then cranks the heat up on the burner.

Finally she sets the spoon back down and leans back against the counter, attention once more on Theo, “What about you, Mr. Raeken—did you get what you wanted?”

Theo stares at her, caught off-guard by the question. His first instinct is to lie, deflect—Shohreh’s knowledge of the Doctors’ and Theo’s own history notwithstanding, if she knew the full story she wouldn’t have manipulated the situation to get him alone to ask him about it the way that she had—but it fades almost as soon as it manifests. Its absence leaves him a little—stranded, though, since Theo doesn’t necessarily have an answer to give her; no one’s ever asked him the question before. But Shohreh just waits patiently, and after a long, slow minute, Theo finds himself hesitantly answering.

“I thought I did,” He tells her, quietly enough that if she were human she probably wouldn’t be able to hear him, “For a little while, at least.”

Shohreh studies him, expression a little unreadable but not—not unkind, “And now?”

Theo just drops his head back down, the movement automatic and a little helpless, eyes on his fingers tangling together in his lap. Finally he sucks in a breath and says, “Now I don’t think I know what that means anymore.”

When he drags his gaze back up to look at her, Shohreh is watching him carefully. Then the pot beside her makes a cheerful burbling noise and she glances down at it, turns so that she can lower the heat, pick up the spoon and stir its contents once more. Blinking, chest feeling almost the same strangely hollow that it had after Scott had put his hand on the back of his neck in Chemult and taken his pain, Theo swallows and lets his eyes fall back to the countertop, concentrates on trying to keep his breathing even and his shoulders steady.

“Do you know what I’ve always liked about the skinwalkers’ prisons, Mr. Raeken?” Shohreh suddenly asks, and the unexpected inquiry knocks Theo out of his own head, some. When he looks up at her, her attention is still on her cooking, fingers now busy dropping chunks of raw chicken into the pot from the pile sat on another cutting board beside the stove, “The skinwalkers send people to hell, sure, but it’s a hell of the prisoner’s own making. Their worst fears, their hidden regrets become the bars of their own cell.”

Theo thinks of his sister’s pale, waterlogged face and flesh, her ceaselessly dripping hair and her frigid hands. He thinks of the way that she hadn’t even looked pleased, or vengeful, every time she drove her fingers through his chest and reclaimed her heart; she’d just looked indifferent. _A hell of the prisoner’s own making_ , Theo repeats silently to himself, and has to bring his hand up to rub at the sudden twist of pain cranking his chest tight. When he glances up, Shohreh is watching him; watching the heel of his palm dig at his sternum. He freezes, and Shohreh’s eyes rise to meet his own.

“It seems you know what I mean,” She murmurs, her gaze—even with human brown eyes—piercing. Then she turns back to the stove and resumes dropping chicken pieces into the pot, though after a minute or so of quiet—Theo’s throat too tight to say anything, even if he knew what the hell to say—she adds, “You’re the first of their prisoners that I know of to walk free, did you know? I wonder what that will mean.”

She finishes dropping the last of the chicken into the pot and gives it one final stir, attention still on the bubbling pot as she turns the heat to low and then muses:

“Though I suppose I don’t really have to wonder, do I?”

Theo feels his brow furrow, confused. But then Shohreh turns and takes the few steps necessary to reach the island, her right hand coming up, fingers curling in a _show me_ gesture. All at once it hits him and he closes his eyes, can feel his expression twist as he raises his left arm and holds out his left wrist; holds out Argent’s bracelet. He opens his eyes once he’s done it but keeps them on the counter, somehow unwilling— _unable_ —to watch as Shohreh takes hold of his forearm, her fingers tracing over the leather.

“Mr. McCall doesn’t know what this is, does he,” Shohreh says quietly, and for all that her words convey a question, she isn’t asking.

But Theo still answers, “No.”

Shohreh hums again and releases his wrist, but she doesn’t move away, just stays standing, one hand on the island and her attention on Theo. Swallowing, Theo brings his left arm to his chest, covers the bracelet with his right hand.

“If Mr. McCall doesn’t know what that is, then he thinks you agreed to help him on this crusade of his out of your own free will,” She interprets, and Theo forces himself to smother the swell of bitterness that rises in his throat, nods after a beat. Shohreh taps a thoughtful finger against the counter, her gaze still burning against the top of Theo’s bent head, “So you originally agreed to help Mr. McCall willingly, and you let the Argent hunter put that on you. Why?”

Theo realizes that he’d started squeezing his wrist hard enough to hurt and forces himself to let go, then forces himself to ignore his throbbing flesh as he answers, voice croaking some through his tight throat, “I didn’t have a lot of choice.”

But Shohreh just _tsks_ , Theo’s eyes jerking up to hers as she orders, “Come now, Mr. Raeken. I’m giving you the opportunity to tell the truth. Take it.”

Theo stares at her for a long moment, his heart now _pounding_ in his throat, too, and then he has to drop his gaze away from hers. But he touches his tongue to his bottom lip as he does it, his right hand already drifting to his right pocket. It feels like it takes an eternity but finally he feels the edges of the photographs against his fingertips, gently takes hold of them and slowly pulls them out.

He doesn’t realize his fingers are shaking until he offers the photos to Shohreh, who studies him for a beat before reaching forward to carefully take hold of them. Over on the stove the simmering pot burbles happily to itself but all Theo can hear is the soft slide of the photos against each other as Shohreh looks at one after the other, her scent gone muted and subdued in Theo’s nose.

“Who are they?” She finally asks quietly, and holds the photos back out to him.

Theo has to clear his throat and swallow several times before he can actually manage to answer as he reaches out to retake them, “My sister. And two of the Doctors’...experiments, that I claimed as betas before—before everything happened.”

He means to stop there. It’s enough of an explanation and Shohreh knows his history, can almost certainly fill in the blanks. But Theo still finds himself saying—still finds himself _confessing_ —as he looks down at the photos in his hands:

“I killed them.”

He doesn’t know if Shohreh had been about to respond, or if the pressure in his chest would have given way to some other confession, because the tromp of feet outside breaks the heavy silence. Theo jerks at the sound and immediately scrambles to shove the photos back in his pocket before the front door opens, his ears catching it as Scott and Argent and Malia spill inside, followed by a handful of Shohreh’s betas. When he looks up, Shohreh is watching him again, but her expression is soft; softer than he really deserves. She holds his gaze for a beat and then her eyes flick upwards, towards the entryway as she says:

“You can calm down, Mr. McCall, Ms. Tate, Mr. Argent. As you can see, Mr. Raeken is unharmed.”

Theo doesn’t know what the hell she means until he turns in his seat to see Scott, Malia, and Argent all standing in the doorway, their chagrined expressions—well, minus Argent, who looks about the same as he ever does—doing little to mask the slowly fading anxiety in their scents. Scott gives him a flicker of a grin when Theo look at him, and Theo finds himself staring back at him, taken aback. _They were worried_ , he thinks; they’d had the same realization that Theo had had about Theo being left alone with Shohreh.

“We, um. We were just…” Scott tries, and then seems to think better of it and closes his mouth with a half-embarrassed, half-defiant grimace. Theo finds himself helplessly smiling at him, Scott biting his lips to keep from smiling back; the corners of his eyes crinkle, regardless.

“Clearly,” Shohreh replies dryly, but she pushes off the island as she says it, returns to her burbling pot, “Lunch is almost ready. What’d you find at this secret hunter hideout of yours?”

All told, they spend nearly a week in Yreka, with the four of them leaving behind their motel on the second day to move to Shohreh’s, her sprawling house full of more than enough guest bedrooms. After that first day either Scott or Argent seem constantly glued to Theo’s side, which Shohreh both immediately recognizes for what it is and seems to find very much amusing; she gets into the habit of shooting Theo these dry, knowing looks, Theo having to smother a laugh every time.

Theo doesn’t have the heart to tell them not to bother—like Shohreh had said, if she wanted him dead, he’d be dead—and even more than that, he finds that he—doesn’t want to. So he spends the rest of the week tripping over Scott and Malia, who haven’t really mastered _staying close_ with _staying out from underfoot_ ; he spends it close by Argent’s side without Argent ever having to order him there.

They leave to head back to Beacon Hills early the last day. Theo’s in his borrowed room packing up the last of his things when Shohreh steps inside, Theo glancing up at her from where he’d been half-bent over his bag. It’s only then—his senses arrowing out instinctively—that he realizes that he can’t hear or smell Scott, Malia, or Argent anywhere in the house. _Outplayed again_ , he thinks, straightening, though this time he’s smiling.

“I sent Mr. McCall, Ms. Tate, and Mr. Argent to go get gas and supplies before you all got on the road,” Shohreh notices his expression and explains, her tone overly innocent.

“That must have taken some maneuvering,” Theo comments, perfectly able to imagine Scott’s stuck expression as he tried to figure out a way to refuse, able to recognize Shohreh’s attempt to get Theo alone this time, but just as unable to do anything about it.

Shohreh just smiles serenely, “Scott seemed to recognize that graceful defeat was his only real option. You’ve got him well-trained at avoiding potential diplomatic incidents.”

“Only when he wants to be,” Theo answers, and doesn’t mean it as an insult; if Scott had actually thought Theo was in any danger, a _potential diplomatic incident_ would have been the least of their problems.

Shohreh laughs quietly and comes to stand in front of him, offers something out in both hands. Theo sets down the shirt he’d been in the process of stuffing into his bag and then, after a beat of hesitation, reaches forward and takes what turns out to be a photo. Almost instantly it’s like being gut-punched, Theo’s breath hitching and then shuddering out of him when he sees the face of it; when he sees Ailene and Anthony Storo smiling back at him, Anthony’s arms around his daughter’s shoulders and the both of them brimming with _life_. Taking a few stumbling steps back, Theo sits on the room’s bed, his eyes never leaving the photo.

“That was six months before you met them, I believe,” Shohreh tells him quietly, “Ailene had just graduated from her master’s program, had come home to start preparing to take over the pack.”

Theo doesn’t know if she’s expecting a response but he can’t give her one if she is, his chest cramping painfully and his throat too tight, his eyes burning. But Shohreh doesn’t say anything, just stands silently by while he stares down at the photo, his shoulders shaking and the fingers holding it trembling around the edges of it. He doesn’t know how long it takes, but finally Theo sucks in a huge, shaky breath and brings the heels of his hands up to scrub at his eyes, the photo still held carefully in his right hand. Leaving his hands where they are, he takes in a few more slow, deep breaths and then lowers them, looks back up at Shohreh.

“Thank you,” He tells her, voice rasping.

She nods, lips curling up in a soft smile, and turns to head for the door. She’s halfway there when Theo glances back down at the photo and he finds himself saying:

“Wait, Shohreh,” She stops and looks back at him, and Theo swallows, steels himself as he looks up at her and asks, “You said—you said that the skinwalkers’ prisons are made of the things a person most—most regrets.”

He means to keep going, but his throat closes, his gaze falling helplessly back down to the photo in his lap. Luckily Shohreh takes over, just gently replies, “I did, yes.”

Swallowing again, Theo forces himself to look back up, “Do you think—do you think someone who’s been in one of those prisons… Do you think that experience changes them?”

Shohreh studies him for a long few seconds, expression unreadable, and then she answers quietly, “No, Mr. Raeken. I don’t.”

Theo flinches. His whole body just folds in on itself, pain like lightening shooting out from his cramped chest. He’s concentrating on breathing—on just that, breathing—when Shohreh suddenly, unexpectedly continues.

“But I do believe that such a person could _choose_ to change.”

Theo freezes, the shame and regret that had surged through him and started eating at his veins like acid freezing, too. He looks up at Shohreh, more than aware of the stunned, naked vulnerability on his face but unable to do anything about it, to find her watching him, eyes and mouth soft.

“I won’t say it was good to have met you, Mr. Raeken. But I will say that I’m glad that I did,” She tells him, and her honesty is just as raw as his vulnerability; blunt. Then she smiles, just a quirk of her lips, and adds, “When you’ve helped Mr. McCall clean up this mess with Monroe, and Mr. Argent has taken that thing off your wrist, come back and see me. You can tell me whether or not I was right.”

She leaves, after that. She leaves him there with his stinging cheeks and his hitching breaths and his trembling fingers, still wrapped carefully around the photo of Ailene and Anthony Storo. Theo stares at the door through which she disappeared for a long time, and then he drops his gaze down and stares at the photo instead, the tip of his finger tracing lightly, so lightly, across Ailene’s and Anthony’s smiling faces.

And then he stands and reaches for his jacket, slides it into his pocket along with the photos of his sister, and Josh, and Tracy.

\---

Theo makes Rossler and Michael Heidenrich meet him at a coffeeshop three blocks from the Redding Police Department headquarters two weeks later, uniformed officers and bleary-eyed detectives constantly coming in and out.

It’s a petty victory but one that Theo had taken great pleasure in demanding, laying back on the abandoned futon in his apartment two days ago and staring at Liam’s ridiculous plant, an ancient flip phone—also deposited in his mailbox—held in his hand as he’d waited for Monroe’s response. The phone had come preprogrammed with one number, which Theo had immediately suspected—and later, after surreptitiously adding it to Parrish’s list of known numbers associated with Monroe and her crew, had confirmed—belonged to a burner, and one that Monroe only turned on when she wanted to communicate with him.

Now, sat in a corner booth, his left arm with its braceleted wrist draped casually over the back of it, Theo watches as Rossler and Heidenrich make their way towards him, Rossler’s pulled-low baseball cap doing little to hide his pinched, hunted expression. They slide into the bench seat across from him—Rossler ordering Heidenrich in first with a shove—and Theo smirks at them, eyes running over Rossler’s hunched shoulders and the way that he’d turned his face inwards, away from the cops milling around.

Smirk widening, Theo reaches forward with his right hand for his cup of coffee and takes a slow, languid sip as he says, “Are you guys not getting anything? You really should. The dark roast is to die for.”

“Don’t push me, half-breed,” Rossler warns lowly, his scent already hot with anger and irritation, and underneath that, just a little fear, “Having us meet here is already cute enough.”

Theo gives him an overly-innocent, confused look, “What, is it a problem for a wanted fugitive like you to walk into a known cop hangout? My bad.”

Rossler manages half a lunge forward, expression twisting in a snarl, before Heidenrich slaps a restraining hand over his chest and—to his minimal credit—Rossler himself seems to think better of it, his eyes flicking around the shop; they get a few curious glances, but nothing more. Shrugging off Heidenrich’s hand with a glare, Rossler leans back and sneers at Theo, his disdain written all over his face.

“You’re lucky Monroe agreed to this at all, considering the absolutely shit job you’ve been doing of holding up your end of the deal,” Rossler tells him, arms crossing over his chest.

Theo just laughs and takes another drink of his coffee, sets it back down as he replies, “Your boys getting popped by the Lakeview pack isn’t my fault. I _told you_ that whole area was a risk. It’s not on me if your people are too stupid to listen.”

“You _told us_ McCall was going to be in Sacramento with Marcus Sivaraja’s pack,” Rossler hisses, leaning forward in as much of a threat as he can get away with, scent going sharp with aggression.

“Which is exactly where he was,” Theo reminds him, tone hardening, “Two steps behind Monroe, same place he’s been ever since me and Michael, here, made our deal.”

Theo gives a wide, not-particularly-friendly smile to Heidenrich, who quails back some, and then a little more when Rossler throws him an angry, dismissive look. Heidenrich had been another of Theo’s ongoing conditions, Monroe responding to Theo’s _that fresh-off-the-farm hunter comes with your hot-headed lieutenant_ with a _what, Michael? You must be joking_. But Theo hadn’t been joking, and so Monroe had sent him, much to Rossler’s ongoing and blatant irritation.  

“Why’d you go back to Lakeview, anyway? You’d already been through that area,” Theo asks after a few seconds, eyes flicking from Heidenrich to Rossler.

He isn’t expecting an answer and Rossler doesn’t give him one, just sneers, “None of your goddamn business.”

“Just trying to make conversation,” Theo protests, tone and expression wounded, though he lets it fade into an insolent smirk quickly enough.

“Why don’t you _make conversation_ and tell us something useful?” Rossler retorts hotly, “Like how the Lakeview pack knew exactly where Preston and Stalnaker were going to be.”

Theo just rolls his eyes, and makes sure to do it slowly, deliberately enough that Rossler can’t miss it, “You’re paranoid, Rossler. Jyoti and her pack didn’t know where your idiot friends ‘ _were going to be_.’ They’ve been on the lookout for hunters in their territory ever since Scott rolled through and told them all about Monroe’s murderous little club, same as Denio, and Carson City, and the rest of them. Your boys got sloppy, and they got caught.”

This time the surge of fury in Rossler’s scent as he makes an aborted move forward is strong enough that Theo has to fight back his instinctive urge to respond, his teeth and claws wanting to lengthen. Clamping down on the shift, Theo instead leans back in his seat, posture open and his left hand rising up from the back of the booth and gesturing out, a clear dare and a clear reminder of their potential audience, just a too-loud word or too-aggressive move away. Eyes darting out into the broader shop and then back, Rossler settles back down after a few, tense seconds; beside him, Heidenrich releases his held breath.

“You know, for someone whose freedom rides on convincing Monroe that you’re not a complete waste of resources, I’d think you’d be a little more worried about your job performance,” Rossler spits out.

But Theo just smiles, the curl of it not going anywhere near his eyes, and leans forward as he replies, “See, that’s the thing. I made a _deal_ with Monroe, I didn’t volunteer to do charity work. And yet besides two photo-copied pages of _pieces_ of a spell that do me absolutely no good on their own, I haven’t gotten shit for my _job performance_ beyond an increased risk that the McCall pack figures out what I’m up to and kills me. So no, Rossler,” Theo continues, relaxing back against the booth, “At the moment I’m not too worried about it.”

Rossler works his jaw, “You think we’re not looking for your goddamn spell?”

Theo just lets his smile widen and says, “I think you’re not dedicating _appropriate resources_ to the search, especially since you have me to thank for Scott heading to Yreka, instead of Roseburg, and Bridgeport, instead of Hawthorne. Or did Monroe just convince herself that she’d finally outthought him when he ended up in the wrong part of the map twice this month?”

“Watch yourself, half-breed,” Rossler snarls quietly, his hand twitching towards the gun hidden underneath his arm, their surroundings notwithstanding.

“Spare me the posturing, Rossler. Even you’re not stupid enough to try something in here,” Theo dismisses acidically, “You want me to provide better information? Provide me _better rewards_. Otherwise I’m going to do exactly like I told Michael I would do, and keep helping Scott gather allies to make this whole conversation moot, take my chances with Argent.”

Theo’s expecting Rossler to meet him threat-for-threat, maybe drop some hint about somehow clueing Scott into Theo’s extracurricular activities, but instead Rossler just smirks and says, almost seeming to savor the words, “Go ahead, mutt. Help Scott trade all the friendship bracelets he wants. It’ll just make it all the sweeter once we figure out how to—”

“Rossler!” Heidenrich suddenly hisses, eyes wide as he glances at Theo.

Instincts snapping taut, Theo smirks and prompts, as obnoxiously as possible, “Oh, don’t stop now. Please, it’ll just make it all the sweeter once you figure out how to…?”

But Heidenrich’s interruption had clearly given Rossler time to snap out of it, think better of what he was saying, and he just grits his teeth and leans back. Beside him Heidenrich’s pulse is thumping hard enough that Theo doesn’t even have to strain to listen for it, anxiety turning the edge of his scent sour. Theo makes sure to catch his eyes, hold them, as he lets his own flare, just a little; just enough to make Heidenrich’s breath stutter.

“Do you actually have anything for us, or did you bring us here just to fuck with us?” Rossler finally demands, tone gone just the slightest bit sullen.

Theo lets his eyes drift slowly away from Heidenrich to Rossler, “I did two days ago, before your boys screwed up and got themselves captured. That changes things, like where Scott is planning on going next.”

Rossler scoffs and moves for the edge of the booth, his own nervousness—at whatever the hell he’d almost said before Heidenrich cut him off—transmuting back into annoyance. Theo keeps his posture relaxed back against his corner of the booth, watching with a serene, unbothered smirk as Heidenrich hurries to follow Rossler out. He looks up when Rossler pauses by the edge of the booth, though, leans down towards him.

“You know, one of these days, you’re going to try to be _too_ cute, and Monroe’s going to put you down like the mongrel you are,” Rossler promises him, voice low. Then he smiles an oily, snake-charmer smile and adds, “I’m hoping she’ll let me do the honors.”

Theo just meets Rossler’s self-satisfied gaze, lets his eyes flare and his teeth behind his still-smirking lips lengthen into sharp-tipped fangs as he replies, “I look forward to watching you try, Rossler.”

Rossler’s upper lip curls back in the beginnings of a snarl, but after a second he just looks away, jaw working. When he looks back, he’s smiling, but it doesn’t touch his eyes, and his scent stays sharp, bitter with barely restrained violence. He looks at Heidenrich and jerks his head towards the exit, though he doesn’t move to follow immediately. Instead he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded-up piece of paper, slaps it down on the table.

“You pull something like this again, this will be the last one you ever receive,” Rossler warns him, and then he straightens, tugs his baseball cap lower on his head, and heads for the door.

Theo leaves the paper where it is until he sees Rossler exit the coffeeshop. Even then he keeps watching through the windows as Rossler steps close to Heidenrich, finger in Heidenrich’s face and his mouth moving, expression twisted. Theo could sharpen his hearing to listen but he doesn’t need to; he’s attempted to save face after some public screw-up enough times that he can recognize it when he sees it. Finally Rossler shoves Heidenrich again, towards the passenger side of the—probably stolen—SUV they’d arrived in. Theo absently notes the license plate: the Sheriff and Agent McCall had a running list of known vehicles; he’d add it next time he got the chance.

Once Rossler and Heidenrich have peeled out of the parking lot, Theo lets his eyes drop to the paper, picks it up after a moment and unfolds it. _Another middle piece_ , Theo thinks to himself as he glances over it, right thumb coming up to brush thoughtfully over his bottom lip: _just like the other two_. Monroe wouldn’t give him the end of the spell until she had no further use for him, but deliberately keeping the first part from him—the part that usually described a given spell’s _effects_ —that was stranger. At first Theo had thought the absence of the first part of the spell had just been coincidence, but now…

Folding the paper back up and tucking it into his inside jacket pocket, Theo reaches for his coffee and drains the last of it, then slides to the edge of the booth and stands. He grabs the mug as he heads for the door, depositing it in the bin set out for that purpose and returning the staff’s _have a good day_ , as he shoulders open the door and heads for his truck.

Scott and Malia are in Argent’s room when he gets back to the motel, Malia flat on her stomach on the bed, head propped up on her folded arms as the three of them talk back and forth. Scott’s sat beside her and leaned back on his palms, while Argent sits in the room’s desk chair, the now somewhat-ragged fold-out map spread out in front of him. They look up when Theo enters, Theo tucking Argent’s spare keycard back into his back pocket.

“You get your artisan-blended cup of dark roast, your majesty?” Argent inquires dryly, a cheap paper cup of motel room coffee at his elbow.

Theo just rolls his eyes as he shuts the door behind him, drops down into the room’s armchair, “Forgive me for not choking down the swill here for another day if I didn’t have to. You heard anything new from Lakeview?”

Scott grimaces, “Neither of the two hunters has said a word. Jyoti and her people are going over their things to see if there are any supernatural clues they can find, and then she’s going to turn them over to my dad.”

Beside him, Malia makes an unhappy, subvocal growl; her version of a frustrated huff, “I still don’t understand why they went back to Lakeview. They’d already practically cleaned out Gerard’s hideout there, Jyoti checked it after we told her about it.”

Theo looks at her. It’s exactly what he’d asked Rossler earlier, _why’d you go back to Lakeview, anyway_ , but hearing it from her mouth sparks a half-formed thought that he hadn’t even realized he’d been subconsciously puzzling at.

“They missed something the first time,” Theo finds himself answering slowly, the realization only forming as he says the words.

Argent, Scott, and Malia all turn to look at him, curiosity and confusion plain on their faces.

“What makes you say that?” Argent asks, eyes narrowing.

Theo‘s going to explain but first he just smirks and says, overly innocent, “Thought I had while enjoying my _artisan-blended_ _cup of dark roast_.” Argent gives him a dry look and Theo huffs a laugh, continues before either Scott or Argent or Malia can prompt him to, “For lack of any better explanation, we’ve been assuming that Monroe has been hitting Gerard’s hideouts in order to resupply, stockpile weapons and resources for whatever she’s planning next.”

“And you don’t think that’s what she’s been doing after all,” Scott hazards, brow furrowing as he tries to guess Theo’s logic.

Theo shakes his head, “I think that’s not what she’s doing _anymore_. At the beginning, I’m guessing that’s exactly what it was.” He hesitates briefly, seeing Rossler less than an hour ago as he’d snarled _it’ll just make it all the sweeter once we figure out how to—_ , “I think she found something. A weapon or a strategy or _something_ , something that made her change tactics. And whatever it is, she needs _specific_ supplies from Gerard’s hideouts.”

“Something that she originally overlooked in Lakeview,” Argent fills in, his tone taking on the same burr of realization that Theo’s had.

“Or part of it, anyway,” Theo agrees.

Scott frowns thoughtfully into the middle-distance, “Then we need to concentrate on the hideouts, on getting to them before she does.”

But Theo just shakes his head again, “No. There are too many, spread out too far across the country, and Argent’s already admitted that there are probably more that he’s either forgotten about or Gerard deliberately hid.” Pausing, Theo shoves away the memory of Rossler spitting out _go ahead, mutt. Help Scott trade all the friendship bracelets he wants_ , “The best thing we can do is exactly what we’re doing; warn the packs, gather allies. _Unite_ them, to the extent we can.”

“But what if Monroe gets her hands on whatever it is,” Malia interrupts, pushing herself up and swinging her legs around so that she’s sitting, “What good will having a bunch of allies do us if she gets her hands on some kind of superweapon?”

Theo goes to open his mouth but Argent beats him to it, “Theo’s right, Malia. Think about what happened in Beacon Hills. Monroe had nearly won after the police station and zoo, remember? But then something changed.”

“Yeah, we all nearly got killed by a creepy fear-inducing shapeshifter while a bunch of hopped-up humans tried to help Monroe wipe us all out,” Malia mutters, and huffs when Argent gives her a look.

“We called for help,” Scott cuts in, looking at Argent with a solemn, _true alpha_ expression that he probably doesn’t even realize he’s wearing, “We gathered our friends, and our allies, and then we fought back together.”

“Exactly,” Argent nods, “We keep chasing Monroe around the country, maybe we stop her from getting her hands on whatever it is she’s looking for. But the more we unite the packs against her, the more we increase our chances that, weapon or no weapon, we can stop her before she hurts anyone else.”

Scott nods to show he’s understood, glances at Malia to check her reaction; she smiles softly at him after a beat, her previous sour expression fading, and nods, too. Lips curling in a return smile, Scott reaches forward and slides his fingers through hers, squeezes once. Then he looks back up at Argent, at Theo.

“So we hold course,” Scott confirms, “But I still don’t like leaving the hideouts completely open for Monroe’s taking. What about asking the packs that we have gained as allies to clear them out themselves, so Monroe can’t do it?”

He looks at Theo as he proposes it, clearly trying to double-check if doing so would constitute some kind of subtle diplomatic faux-pas. Theo just taps the side of his left index finger against his mouth, his left elbow braced on the edge of the chair, and glances at Argent. It puts Argent’s bracelet wrapped around his left wrist in his eyeline, makes the corner of the folded-up piece of spell dig into his side, but Theo ignores both of those things as he meets Argent’s eyes, makes a thoughtful face.

“We’ve already warned the packs with hideouts in their territories to be on the lookout,” Argent points out.

“Sure, but knowing your father’s penchant for booby-traps, asking the packs to clean them out is asking them to take on a significantly bigger risk. Plus we’ve got no idea what they’ll _find_ , ” Theo counters; it’s not a _no_ , though. Finally Theo sighs and looks back to Scott, “It’s not a bad idea, but _you’re_ going to have to be the one that asks them, alpha to alpha. And you’re going to have to be prepared to accept the consequences if something does happen to one of the packs as a result of your request.”

Scott chews his lip, eyes drifting from Theo’s to Malia’s, “What do you think?”

“I think those other packs have just as much to lose as we do, if not more,” Malia answers, her tone and expression the same bluntly honest as they always are; open, “This is their fight, too, Scott.”

Scott studies her for a few seconds, a slow smile overtaking his mouth, and then he leans forward and kisses her, just once, quickly. Then he turns back to Theo.

“You can tell me what to do, how to ask?” He confirms, and Theo nods, the wheels of his mind already turning, already chewing over the best way to go about it.

But Argent just interrupts, “Later. Shohreh and McPherson are going to be here within the hour for the meeting with the Redding and Mendocino packs, and you two—” Here he looks pointedly at Scott and Malia, “—aren’t showered. Go get ready, we can talk more about this new strategy later.”

Malia makes a face, but she slides off the bed and starts heading for the door. Scott, on the other hand, pales a little as he realizes what time it is, and—probably more to the point—remembers the upcoming pseudo-summit he had to headline in just a few hours. Taking pity on him, Theo fishes his wallet out of his back pocket and then slides his room keycard out of its slot, holds it out to Scott.

“Use the shower in my room while Malia’s in yours,” He offers, and Scott gives him a grateful look and stands, comes over to take it, “Once you’re out, I’ll come in, we can go over the packs that are coming again.”

Scott sags a little in relief and then smiles sheepishly at him, heads out the door. Theo waits until the door clicks shut behind him and then turns back to Argent, sure that his hesitation—the thought that had been churning away in the back of his mind since the coffeeshop finally solidifying—is all over his face.

And it must be, because Argent just raises his eyebrows and tells him, “Better just spit it out, whatever it is.”

Theo grimaces, leans his head against his still-braced left arm, “There’s something else we can do, if we want to narrow the field some, try and figure out _where_ Monroe is, if not exactly what she’s up to.”

“But…?” Argent prompts, when Theo hesitates again.

“ _But_ …” Theo repeats, dragging it out a little as he continues to debate with himself whether or not he even wants to risk bringing it up, “You’re not going to like it.”

Argent just looks at him appraisingly for a few long seconds—his eyes dropping there and back to the bracelet around Theo’s wrist—and then he inhales in a deep breath, exhales it out in a slow rush.

Finally he meets Theo’s eyes and orders, “Tell me.”

\---

Theo’s sat backwards on one of the McCall kitchen chairs, arms folded over the back and his chin braced on his forearms, eyes on Argent’s hands as he scribbles notes on the fold-out map spread across the table.

“Between the werewolves your friends sent and the tracking beacons we hid in their clothes, we’ve narrowed the potential area to where Monroe’s people took Preston and Stalnaker to about one hundred square miles, somewhere between Fresno and Bakersfield. At that point they must have changed clothes, because we lost the beacons. And the area got too populated for the wolves, they lost the scent,” Agent McCall informs them from Argent’s phone, left on speaker on the corner of the table.

“One hundred square _miles_?” Malia squawks indignantly from her seat to Argent’s left, and glares at the phone, “They could be anywhere!”

“Anywhere within one hundred square miles,” Argent corrects, not unkindly, “That’s more than we knew twenty-four hours ago, when Monroe could have been anywhere in the western United States.” That said, he glances up at Theo from his position braced over the map, “As long as we were right about Monroe taking Preston and Stalnaker back to wherever she’s holed up, that is.”

_As long as we were right to let them ‘escape,’_ he means, and Theo taps his teeth together a few times thoughtfully, meets his eyes.

“If our theory about her sending them after some critical item in Gerard’s Lakeview hideout is right, she has to talk to them. She needs to find out whether they found whatever they were looking for, and what happened to it once they were captured if they did,” Theo replies, straightening from his hunched position as he does.

“I’ve already got my people concentrating on the area,” Agent McCall offers, “And your friend Marcus said he knows the packs nearby, that he’ll talk to them about trying to narrow the area further.”

“We’ve got to head there next,” Theo murmurs, tilting his head so he can look at Scott, sat to Argent’s right, who nods.

“Alright, thanks, dad,” Scott says, pitching his voice louder so that Argent’s phone can pick it up from the other side of the table, “We’ll let you know if we get any updates on our end.”

“Sounds good. Love you,” Agent McCall replies, voice crackling some as the connection jitters.

“Love you, too,” Scott answers, and smiles at Argent in thanks when Argent leans over and taps his phone to end the call. Then he sighs and rubs a—dopily charming—hand over his hair, “Man, I really hope letting them escape turns out to be worth it.”

“According to the people your dad had on the ground and Shohreh’s betas, the men Monroe sent to intercept Preston and Stalnaker’s transfer didn’t suspect a thing. They had no reason to worry about taking them back to Monroe,” Theo reminds him, tone comforting, the burn of Scott’s low-grade guilt—obvious enough to trace to its source even without Scott opening his mouth to admit to it, _but what if they hurt someone now that they’re free_ —stinging in his nose.

“This was a good plan, Scott,” Argent adds, “They stayed in custody, maybe Preston and Stalnaker cracked and told your dad something useful. But you know how the people Monroe has left are—loyal to a frankly cult-like degree. They probably wouldn’t have admitted so much as their favorite soft drink.”

“No, I know,” Scott agrees, blowing out a frustrated gust of air, “It just feels...wrong, letting killers like them go.”

Theo smothers a flinch. Scott hadn’t meant him, Scott continuing to talk obliviously with Argent and Malia, already starting to plan their trip to somewhere-between-Fresno-and-Bakersfield, but the comment still stings. Swallowing, Theo exhales out his own slow, quiet breath and presses his right arm against his side to feel the photos of his sister, of Josh, of Tracy, and of Ailene and Anthony Storo, dig into his side.

He’s jolted out of his thoughts the next instant anyway when the sound of a car pulling in the driveway causes Scott’s, Malia’s, and Theo’s heads to automatically tip up, senses instinctively stretching out. Nose wrinkling as he catches the scent of fresh groceries, Theo looks over at Scott and sees the realization cross his face, Theo remembering a half-second after him.

“You forgot about the pack dinner,” Argent surmises, mouth twitching in a smile as he watches Scott’s face fall.

“There was a lot going on!” Scott protests defensively, but he does it while scrambling to his feet, expression gone sheepish as he heads for the door to go help Ms. McCall carry in the groceries she’d bought.

Malia rolls her eyes and follows after him, leaving Argent and Theo in the kitchen. Argent reaches over to retrieve his phone and then pockets it, starts folding up the map. Chest still feeling half-twisted and cramped from Scott’s unintentionally pointed comment, Theo pushes himself to his feet and swings his chair around, tucks it back in under the table.

“I’ll swing back by tomorrow morning so we can figure out the rest of the plan,” Theo tells Argent, who looks at him carefully for a long second and then nods.

Theo holds open the door for Ms. McCall as she comes through, her arms laden with paper bags, and smiles absently at her breathy _thanks_ , then keeps holding it as Scott and Malia follow her in. Once they’re through, Theo lets the door swing closed behind him and starts heading for his truck parked in front of the sidewalk, keys already fished out of his pocket. He’s unlocked it and has tugged open the driver’s side door when the McCall front door opens again and Scott comes jogging out of it, yelling _Theo, wait_.

Theo—who’d already gotten one foot up on the baseboard—drops back down to both feet and turns to look at him, expression gone quizzical. Scott continues towards him until he’s standing in front of him, and then he tucks his hands in his pockets, tips his head towards Theo’s open door.

“You don’t have to leave,” Scott tells him.

“Scott,” Theo says, then stops and huffs out a low breath, head dropping low on his neck, “That’s not—”

“A good idea?” Scott finishes, lips flickering in a smile when Theo glances up at him.

Theo bites back his own smile, “You promised you were going to listen to me the next time I said that.”

Scott’s face scrunches up as he tips his head to the side, “Not sure this was the circumstance I was picturing.”

Theo gives up and lets out the quiet laugh he’d been swallowing down, Scott doing the same across from him. But Theo doesn’t budge; doesn’t close his door or step back towards the McCall house. Instead he just sighs and taps the back of his knuckles against the side of his truck, expression sobering and the brief flare of amusement—and camaraderie—fading.

“Look, Scott,” Theo murmurs finally, touching his tongue to his bottom lip and then looking back at Scott, “Whatever...trench warfare detente you and I have developed, don’t force your pack to act like they don’t have history with me.”

But Scott just looks away, mouth pursing in a thoughtful grimace, “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Theo tries to think of an artful way to say _yes_ , and eventually just grimaces right back at him.

Scott nods, but it’s not a nod of agreement, but of acknowledgement; Scott recognizing Theo’s opinion but not necessarily validating it. After a few seconds he hums a quiet, rueful sound, and then starts taking a few slow steps backwards, hands still in his pockets and eyes coming back to Theo.

“I’d say what I’m doing is giving them the opportunity to make their own choices about you,” Scott tells him, tone carefully neutral; neither accusatory nor cajoling, just stating fact. He quirks a smile at Theo once he says it, still walking backwards, and adds, “Maybe you should give them the same.”

His piece said, Scott pivots on one heel so that he’s facing the house, starts jogging slowly back towards the front door. Theo watches him until the door clicks shut behind him, still stood inside his open truck door, mouth open and expression stunned. Eventually he blinks and drops his gaze, but of course— _of course_ —his left hand is still resting on the door handle, Argent’s bracelet with its dark runes gleaming dully in the late afternoon sunlight. _Shit_ , Theo thinks, picking his hand up and twisting his wrist back and forth to see them flow one into the next, unbroken as ever.

When he steps back into the kitchen two minutes later, Argent glances up at him from where he’d already started to unpack the bags Scott, Malia, and Ms. McCall had brought in, clearly curious, “I thought you were leaving.”

“Yeah, well,” Theo mutters, “I got McCall’ed.”

Argent just laughs quietly, “Cutting boards are in there, knives in there.” He says, nodding at the respective cabinet and drawer, “Start cutting up the vegetables, would you?”

Theo stays in the kitchen helping Ms. McCall, Argent, Scott, and Malia prepare dinner for as long as he’s able, artfully dodging Scott’s attempt to rope him into coming into the living room once Mason shows, followed soon after by Derek. It’s clear from the knowing looks that Ms. McCall and Argent keep shooting him that they’re humoring him, and Theo would be embarrassed about that if the alternative wasn’t going out into the living room and attempting to wade through watching the various members of the McCall pack try to figure out how to respond to him.

Instead he keeps his head down and concentrates on chopping zucchini and mushrooms and onions for Argent to grill, on helping Ms. McCall form burger patties out of the frankly gargantuan packets of ground beef that she’d purchased at Costco, all the while feeling the tension between his shoulders ratchet tighter and tighter as Liam, Corey, and Nolan—who’d apparently been officially, and potentially unwillingly, inducted into the McCall pack chaos at some point when Theo was off with Scott—stumble in fresh from lacrosse practice. The Sheriff and Parrish arrive minutes later, their arms laden with bags of chips and packs of sodas, and Theo gets away with hiding in the kitchen even longer under the guise of helping Ms. McCall figure out how to somehow arrange all the food on the counters and table.

It doesn’t last, of course. Theo’s stood at the end of one of the counters, a plate of food in his hand—he’d considered trying to duck out in the frenzy of everyone swarming the kitchen once the burgers were ready, but had looked up and realized Ms. McCall was watching him thoughtfully—when Malia comes in. She starts putting together a burger—her third, if Theo’s got his count right—though she does it somewhat absently, her eyes flicking to Theo and the way that he’d started picking at his food still stood alone in the kitchen, his plate already half empty.

Finally Malia huffs and sets her plate down, braces her arms on the counter as she studies him, “You’re doing that thing, aren’t you.”

“What thing?” Theo hedges, because he knows exactly _what thing_.

Malia just gives him an unimpressed look and says, “That thing where you hide away so that you don’t ‘put anyone in a bad position.’”

Theo gets her point but the air-quotes might be a little unfair, “I’m not sure _hiding—_ ”

But Malia apparently gets bored with his excuses, because she rolls her eyes and picks up her plate, then leans over the counter and just snags the edge of his sleeve with her free hand. Theo really has no choice at that point but to go with her pulling grip or risk dumping his plate all over Ms. McCall’s floors, his startled noise and startled protest ignored as Malia drags him into the living room and over to the couch, where she deposits him next to Mason, who jumps and darts a look between the two of them, clearly confused.

“Uh, hey, Theo,” Mason offers as Malia releases Theo’s sleeve and goes to rejoin Scott on the loveseat, Scott’s face doing an absolutely _abhorrent_ job of hiding his amusement.

“Hey, Mason,” Theo returns somewhat reluctantly, aware that Malia’s chosen style of entrance meant that practically everyone in the room had turned to look at him.

“Mason was just asking about some of the other packs, what they’re like,” Scott says into the resulting silence, coming to his rescue like the true alpha that he is.

“Great,” Theo mutters nonsensically, and gives fixing his plate way more attention than it deserves, most of its contents now firmly on one side thanks to Malia’s less-than-delicate handling.

The conversation picks back up, though, for which Theo is infinitely grateful. Pretty soon most of the pack members—including Corey, sat on Mason’s other side and whose scent had gone sharp and bitter when he’d spotted him—seem to forget about Theo, pulled back into Scott’s and Malia’s and Argent’s descriptions of the other packs, their members and politics, Derek chiming in with additional detail here and there. It leaves Theo free to exhale out a long, slow breath, some of his tension fading; he looks up at one point to see Liam watching him, Liam sat on the floor across from the couch, and finds himself looking back, caught. Before he can make a face or call Liam out for staring or whatever, Liam flashes him a quick, there-and-gone smile and looks away, turns his attention back to the conversation flowing around them.

All told, Theo does an admirable job of keeping his mouth closed and not drawing attention to himself, at least until the conversation turns towards a recap of Scott’s, Malia’s, and Argent’s first meetings with the various packs. Then, mid-retelling of Scott fumbling his way through his introduction to Marcus Sivaraja, Scott protesting _it was not that bad_ to Malia’s editorializing, Ms. McCall looks over at Theo and cracks up laughing.

Theo realizes that everyone’s now looking at _him_ , having followed Ms. McCall’s eyeline, and he holds up his hands as he protests, “I said nothing!”

“Oh, but your face was saying nothing _very loudly_ ,” Ms. McCall counters gleefully, laughing even harder when she glances over at her son and sees his expression go from defensive to good-naturedly insulted to resigned.

“So how bad was it really, then?” Liam demands, balling up the paper towel he’d been using as a napkin and throwing it at Theo.

Theo bats away the ball but then hesitates, eyes flicking to Scott. But Scott just meets his gaze, his lips flickering in a quick smile, and then he throws up his hands in deliberately overdramatic permission and falls back against the back of the loveseat in a faux-huff.

Biting back his own smile, Theo turns back to the rest of the pack—to Liam—and says, “Well…”

He ends up sleeping in later than he usually does after getting back to his apartment late, not even the sunlight streaming in through the loft’s enormous windows enough to wake him. Eventually he blinks himself awake, mind fuzzy and senses still sleepily buried in the scent of the McCall house—in the McCall _pack_ —clinging to his clothes, his skin. Still half-asleep, Theo inhales in a deep breath, holds it in his lungs for a long few seconds, and then exhales out and does it again. It doesn’t take him long to realize what he’s doing, the rest of his brain coming fully back online, and he grimaces at himself, forces himself up and onto his feet and into his bathroom to shower.

Of course, twenty minutes later and he finds himself absently dumping a cup of water into the planter holding Liam’s ridiculous plant while checking his phone, so it’s possible—Theo giving his reflection in the window a dry look—that the entire day is already a wash. Sighing, Theo sets the cup down on the windowsill and pockets his phone, already mentally running through his list of options to pick up breakfast on his way back to the McCall house. Then he stops, remembering the half-eaten box of instant oatmeal packets he’d found on his counter last time he was here. Frowning, he hesitates for a few beats longer, and then he snags the empty cup and heads for his kitchen.

He’s halfway through a bowl of oatmeal and in the middle of heating up a second mug of hot water for another cup of instant coffee when he tags the sound of a key in his lock. For half a second Theo thinks about saying something, but in the end he just retrieves his mug from the microwave when it starts beeping and focuses on tearing open an instant coffee packet, dumping it into the steaming mug. He’s in the middle of hunting for the spoon he’d used to stir his last cup—having only two spoons in the entirety of his kitchen, to go along with the mismatched handful of knives and forks that had also appeared in one of his drawers at some point—when Liam stumbles in and drapes himself dramatically over the island with a groan, his shirt sweat-soaked and his pants muddy.

“Derek is a bad person,” Liam mumbles into the counter, and Theo swallows back his laugh but can’t quite keep the amused grin off his face as he finally locates the spoon and finishes making his coffee.

“You’re the one who volunteered to run patrols with him,” Theo reminds him mercilessly, snagging his bowl of oatmeal from beside Liam’s elbow and popping a spoonful of it into his mouth as he leans back against the counter opposite him.

Liam just looks up at him and glares, apparently irritated by Theo’s lack of sympathy. Then he catches sight of the bowl in Theo’s hands and the mug at his elbow and he straightens, his eyes narrowing further.

“Are you eating my food?” He demands.

“I’m eating food that was _in my apartment_ ,” Theo replies pointedly, but he makes sure to be extra deliberate about his next bite as Liam watches him.

“Yeah, food that _I left here_ , ” Liam counters, straightening, his previously overwhelming exhaustion apparently forgotten, “Which makes it _my food_.”

“Do trespassers get property rights like that?” Theo wonders aloud, grinning again at Liam’s scoff.

“Oh, okay, if that’s how it is then I’ll just take back my food along with _all my dishes_ ,” Liam replies tartly, and makes a grab for Theo’s bowl.

Theo jerks it out of the way with a warning look, though there’s no real heat behind it, “Why have you been stocking my kitchen anyway?”

Apparently losing interest in reclaiming his dishes, Liam just ducks past Theo to the cabinet containing exactly two other bowls, four plates, and one additional mug—which Theo strongly suspects Liam found at some kind of garage sale—and pulls down his own bowl and mug.

“Because I’m always _starving_ when we get back from patrols, and Derek lives on like, protein bars and the frustrated tears of all the lustful homemakers he leaves behind everytime he walks through downtown,” Liam answers absently, brushing up against Theo as he reaches for the box of oatmeal packets behind Theo’s back.

“‘Lustful homemakers?’” Theo repeats skeptically, shifting reluctantly when Liam hip-checks him out of the way of the microwave so he can put his bowl inside.

Liam just punches in the time and hits _start_ , giving Theo a dry look as he does, “ _You_ go with him one time and tell me I’m wrong. Even if it wasn’t all over their faces, they sure as shit _smell—_ ”

“Yeah, okay, got it,” Theo cuts him off before he can finish, rolling his eyes.

Liam smirks and pulls out his bowl as the microwave beeps, switching it for the mug of water that he’d filled up. He opens the drawer with the silverware and then frowns down at it when he realizes the second spoon is missing, his head coming up as glances around the kitchen looking for it. When he catches sight of it sticking out of Theo’s mug of coffee, he holds out one hand, fingers making a _gimme_ motion. Theo considers being an ass for a few seconds, but then he just huffs and pulls the spoon out, popping it in his mouth briefly to clean it so that it won’t drip coffee all over his floor as he hands it over. It occurs to him the instant _after_ Liam’s taken it exactly what he just did, but Liam doesn’t even pause, just drops it into his oatmeal and starts stirring, takes a heaping bite of it once he’s done.

“So how’d your little set-up go with Monroe’s captured people?” Liam asks a minute or so later, taking a sip of his newly-made coffee and looking at Theo over the rim.

Theo only remembers the strategy session that he’d agreed to last night with Argent when Scott texts him  _???_ an hour later, Theo checking his phone when it vibrates from his seat on the counter, Liam across from him sitting on the island. Swearing, he texts Scott that he’s on his way and hops down, already reaching for his dishes to quickly rinse them off, then jerks and looks around when Liam kicks him gently in the side.

“I’ve got it,” Liam tells him, “Go.”

Theo leaves Liam in his apartment with a _thanks_ and the absolutely certain knowledge that Liam is going to use the last of his bodywash, and possibly run off with a clean pair of Theo’s jeans and one of his shirts. The thought’s more amusing than anything else, though there is _something else_ to it, too, a flicker of _something_ in Theo’s gut at the thought of Liam in his shower, wearing his clothes, that he ruthlessly smothers.

It’s a good thing he does, because it’s obvious that Scott and Malia can already smell Liam on him when he steps into the McCall house twenty minutes later. He catches their confused looks and the beginnings of curiosity in their scents, and has to fight back a sudden flush as they squint at him, Argent glancing between them and then to Theo with an increasingly intrigued expression.

“Blame Derek,” Is all Theo says, and then, to head off any further questions, adds, “Any update?”

They let it go, though Scott’s wearing a sly smile as he starts filling Theo in on what he missed. Theo, though; Theo catches himself throughout the rest of the morning taking those same slow, deep breaths that he’d been taking earlier, searching for the subtle scent of Liam’s sweat, his skin, on his clothes.

He doesn’t stop himself from doing it once he realizes, though.

\---

Theo, Scott, Argent, and Malia aren’t even supposed to be anywhere _near_ Chester when Alec is attacked, except the Willow Ranch pack takes the increase in communication between the western packs and decides it wants to be pissed about Nathaniel running off to marry Nina after all, and Scott gets called in to help illustrate why now _really isn’t the time_.

The alpha of the Almanor pack offers up his lakehouse as a neutral meeting place, with the Willow Ranch, Denio, Carson City, Yreka, and a handful of other packs all sending representatives. Scott spends the entirety of the ride there—Scott riding with Theo in his truck, Malia with Argent in Argent’s SUV—alternating between a calm and collected sort of _true alpha_ determination and a barely constrained sense of panic, Theo mostly bemusedly silent in the driver’s seat as Scott talks himself into and then out of several stern pronouncements of being ready. Theo cuts in where he can, planting questions that he _knows_ Scott knows the answers to, every now and then dropping an incorrect fact just so Scott can correct him and then look amusingly poleaxed when he realizes what he’s done.

By the time they pull up to the Almanor pack alpha’s lakehouse, Theo slotting his truck into a spot in the long gravel driveway behind Argent’s SUV, Scott has seemingly worked through his nerves and just looks the sort of quietly confident that always used to drive Theo _nuts_ back when he was desperately trying to find ways to pry apart Scott’s composure. Now he just finds it comforting, Scott’s settled demeanor settling his own admittedly much better hidden apprehension; Theo doesn’t have quite the same history with any of the attending packs that he did with Quentin and the Chemult pack, but his past isn’t exactly a secret, and gatherings such as this sometimes veer—off-topic.

He’s trying and mostly succeeding in not thinking about that when he steps out of his truck and shuts the door, Scott doing the same across from him, when Malia stalks over from Argent’s SUV and announces, “This is a gigantic waste of time,” as she stops in front of Scott.

Theo swallows back a laugh, and then swallows back _another_ one when Scott’s only response is to go wide-eyed and shush her, glancing around like he’s afraid someone might have overheard her as he hisses, “Malia!”

“What?” Malia protests, glaring at Scott, and then at Theo and Argent—coming over to join them—in turn, “It _is_. While we’re here dealing with Willow Ranch’s hurt feelings, Monroe could be finding whatever she’s looking for and preparing to kill us all.”

“Welcome to politics,” Argent answers drily, and tips his head towards the house in a clear order.

Malia’s right, of course, and the three hours it takes for the situation to resolve itself—Shohreh putting a pretty irreversible end to the whole debacle when she interrupts the Willow Ranch alpha to say, _for god’s sake, Gavin. This isn’t fifteenth century Europe and you weren’t negotiating a royal marriage_ —accomplish very little. But as Theo attempts to explain to a scowling Malia half an hour after the Willow Ranch pack storms out, the rest of the packs staying and scattering around the Almanor pack lakehouse in constantly-shifting, chattering clumps, it doesn’t accomplish _nothing_.

“The Willow Ranch, Denio, and Carson City packs _needed_ resolution,” Theo says to her and Scott, the three of them stood on the lakehouse’s dock and looking out over the water, “It’s been almost two years of simmering resentment, and even if the only resolution was everyone agreeing that Gavin Howitt is a dick, at least now it _is_ resolved.”

Scott frowns thoughtfully but Malia just stares at him, “That is one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard.”

“Hey, you heard Argent,” Theo replies, holding up his hands in a palms-out, _don’t blame me_ gesture, “Welcome to politics.”

Malia just scoffs and rolls her eyes, but Scott blinks and then looks around, “Where is Argent, anyway?”

Theo’s about to say _he’s up at the house with McPherson,_ when the falling night is split by a sudden, savage roar, all three of them flinching bodily, hands flying protectively to their ears. It takes several seconds to stop, Theo feeling his eyes flare behind his squeezed-shut eyelids, his teeth sharpening into fangs behind his grimacing lips and his fingertips lengthening into claws as the sound tears at his consciousness. When it finally starts to fade, Theo blinks open his eyes—still helplessly flared—and looks at Scott, at Malia, both of them also shifted and staring back at him, wide-eyed.

“That was an alpha werewolf,” Scott states slowly, still obviously dazed.

“And not one of the ones here,” Theo points out in turn, and then, as the implications of that thought sink in, the three of them take off running back towards the house.

Nahum—alpha of the Almanor pack—takes control of the response as the person with the greatest familiarity with the area, dispatching various parties to search different parts of the surrounding wilderness and nearby towns. He sends Scott, Argent, Malia, and Theo north towards Chester with instructions to work their way from the lake to the town, his eyes and mouth hard, his concern easy to pinpoint; if there was an out-of-control alpha werewolf running loose in a populated area, they were all of them in trouble.

“What is it?” Argent asks Theo forty-five minutes later, standing over Theo’s crouched form and watching with interest as Theo carefully touches his fingers to a muddy shoe-print left on the sidewalk, still wet; the same set they’d followed from the edge of the forest into downtown.

“We need to split up,” Theo says as he looks up at him, and grimaces right back at Argent when his expression twists unhappily, “Look, we’ve got three issues. This set of shoe-prints, the alpha werewolf’s prints which veer off that way—” Theo continues, gesturing, “—and the two or three hunters following each of them.”

Scott and Malia run up before Argent can reply, Malia holding out what turns out to be a snapped crossbow bolt, the tip reeking of wolfsbane and the shaft of mistletoe, “There’s definitely a set of hunters following the kid, and they’re _definitely_ trying to kill him.”

“Shit,” Argent mutters under his breath, then looks at Scott, “We’ve got to go after him, try and head them off.”

“We can’t just leave the alpha,” Malia protests, “You heard Nahum on the phone, it’s going to take the other packs at least twenty minutes to get here. We wait, there’s a decent chance the alpha bites someone else. I’ll go after it.”

Malia moves to take off after the alpha’s muddy—and bloody—prints, but Scott grabs her arm, jerks her to a stop, “No way, you can’t go alone. It’s way too dangerous.”

“I’ll go with her,” Theo interrupts before Malia can try to argue, “You and Argent go after the kid, we’ll go after the alpha.”

Scott still looks conflicted but he also seems to recognize their lack of options, and after a frustrated few beats of hesitation, he nods, “Watch out for the hunters. If they _are_ Monroe’s—” Theo barely stops himself from scoffing _if?_ , “—they’ll be just as happy to kill you, too.”

“I’d like to see them _try_ ,” Malia snarls lowly, eyes flaring blue, and this time when she takes off—Theo cursing and sprinting after her—Scott doesn’t stop her.

Finding the alpha is less complicated than it could be, whoever-it-is so clearly out of their mind that they’re not even trying to be discrete. Malia skids to a stop in an empty warehouse parking lot just as the fully-shifted alpha bellows in pain and then gets ahold of one of the hunters trying ineffectually to shoot it, tossing the woman against the side of the warehouse with a spine-shattering _crack_ that Theo doubts he’d have needed his shifted ears to hear. The other hunter panics and and drops the crossbow he’d been frantically trying to reload in favor of the pistol under his arm, starts unloading the clip as the alpha advances on it.

The bullets do nothing but piss the alpha off further—Hunting 101—but the distraction gives Malia the time to lunge, her clawed hand catching hold of the alpha’s upraised arm and dragging it backwards, pulling the alpha off-balance. It’s a brilliant move—the alpha stumbling back, and then stumbling _further_ when Malia continues striking at it—but it has the unfortunate side-effect of saving the hunter’s life, and the idiot takes one look at the ongoing struggle and decides the best thing to do is start _shooting at them both_.

Snarling, Theo leaps forward and gets a hand around the hunter’s wrist, the bones snapping from the force of his grip as he jerks the hunter’s arm up and his gun away from Malia, the hunter shrieking in pain and dropping the gun. Theo barely notices it fall, too busy snaking his arm up and under the hunter’s until he can get a hand on his face, trip the hunter back over his own hip, slamming him hard into the ground and knocking him out instantly. _You better not be dead_ , Theo thinks at him even as he whirls back around to face Malia and the alpha’s ongoing fight: _I have some questions for you_.

The fight’s a bitch, but between Theo, Malia, and the poisoned crossbow bolts that the hunters _had_ managed to shoot it with, the alpha eventually goes down. It does unfortunately succeed in throwing Malia against a nearby parked car hard enough to knock her out cold before Theo can break its back, though, the suddenly-paralyzed alpha falling to the ground, the shift fading to reveal a nondescript, glassy-eyed man who stares dazedly up at Theo before his eyes slip shut. _God, you better not be dead, either_ , Theo thinks, then kneels down with a groan—his left arm folded over his chest and the set of five deep, still healing claw-marks scored across his torso—to check the alpha’s pulse; he finds it, and lets out his held breath.

He’s just finished pushing himself back to his feet so that he can stumble over to Malia, check on her, when the sound of pounding footsteps breaks through the roar of adrenaline in his ears and he looks up, eyes wide, in time to see Rossler and Preston come running up, automatic rifles in hand. They slow when they see the carnage in front of them, their eyes flicking over Malia passed out by the car, their dead-and-unconscious hunter friends, the unmoving-but-breathing alpha, and finally Theo, who has to fight back the sudden spike of fear that goes driving through him as he realizes how monumentally _screwed_ he and Malia are.

“Well, well,” Rossler starts, his eyes taking on a particularly _alarming_ gleam as he studies Theo, his hunched posture and the injury no doubt visible behind his protective arm, “I was not expecting this.”

“Which part?” Theo wonders aloud, injecting as much insolence into his tone as he can, fully aware that it’s a pretty pathetic amount, “The part where Monroe obviously _royally_ fucked up or the part where someone else had to clean up her mess? Because personally I don’t find either of those things too surprising.”

_C’mon, c’mon_ , he thinks viciously to himself, sparing as much attention as he can to his sluggishly healing body, trying to calculate how long the gashes are going to take to heal, the rest of it on Rossler as he slowly comes forward, Rossler’s gun still pointed at the ground but his finger still on the trigger.

“ _I_ don’t find it particularly surprising that you’re still a smart-mouthed little bastard even now, when you really should know better,” Rossler replies laconically, but the smile he gives Theo doesn’t touch his eyes and his finger taps the trigger of his gun once, twice.

He looks at Preston and jerks his chin towards the unconscious hunter, Preston swinging his gun back behind himself on its strap and kneeling down to check the hunter’s pulse. Rossler doesn’t seem too concerned with his friend’s fate, though, his attention drifting past Theo to the alpha crumpled at Theo’s feet.

“Why don’t you go ahead and step away from our delinquent friend there, Theo,” Rossler says; he phrases it as a question but his gun rises a few pointed inches in an obvious threat.

Gritting his teeth and thinking fast, Theo takes a few steps back, his mind catching on Rossler’s word choice— _our_ delinquent _friend_ —and then he takes a stab in the dark, “I didn’t realize Monroe was in the habit of keeping pets.”

Rossler just smiles and motions him back another few steps with the tip of his gun, Theo reluctantly going, “Why not? Scott seems to be having such a good time keeping _you_.”

Theo has to fight back the swell of anger that burns through him at that, his fingers twitching against his still-healing side, his fingertips briefly aching with the urge to lengthen into claws; Rossler’s smile widens, obviously catching the movement. Forcing himself to breathe, to calm down—to ignore the fury and embarrassment from Rossler’s glib remark, as well as the pain from his still-healing chest—Theo forcefully relaxes his tense muscles, tries to flush as much of the adrenaline from his still-singing blood as he can.

Except then he _hears_ something he hadn’t caught before, and his body tenses right back up. _Oh,_ fuck _me_ , Theo thinks, ears now tuned to the sound of a vehicle approaching at high speed. For a moment he tries to tell himself that it’s Argent and Scott, or maybe one of the other packs, but he knows better. And clearly, so does Rossler: he grins as he realizes what Theo must have heard and raises his gun to point it directly at Theo’s head.

“That’s right, Theo,” Rossler tells him, satisfaction dripping from his every word, “We’ve got friends on the way. So you and me, and Scott’s little girlfriend over there—” Rossler jerks his chin towards Malia, still out, “—are all going to sit tight until they get here.” Then he stops, barks, “Preston! Forget Lamarche, go guard the girl. We’re taking our two party crashers here back with us.”

But Preston doesn’t move immediately, just frowns up at Rossler from his place by apparently-Lamarche, “That’s not what Monroe—”

Some off the satisfaction disappears from Rossler’s face as he turns his head to snarl _just shut up and do it_ , his gun never wavering from between Theo’s eyes, except that a half-second before he finishes speaking, Theo catches a flash of ice-blue out of the corner of his eye and realizes that Malia has woken up. She’s up and lunging for Preston—the closer of the two—before either Rossler or Preston can react, Preston startling back with a panicked cry and Rossler swearing and pivoting on his heel to try and get his gun on her instead.

_Bad move_ , Theo thinks at him, and takes advantage of Rossler’s distraction to tackle him, sending them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Theo’s injured chest _shrieks_ with pain but he grimaces and ignores it, focused as he is on keeping Rossler’s gun barrel away from himself, on wrestling it out of Rossler’s grip. He’s just managed to rip it away from Rossler hands, immediately cracking him across the face with the stock, when his head snaps up and he spots the twin glare of headlights speeding towards them; Rossler’s friends arriving.

Scrambling up and tossing the gun away, Theo leaves Rossler groaning on the ground and stumbles his way towards Malia—still struggling, obviously still dazed herself, with Preston—and yells, “Malia, we have to go!”

She looks over at him, eyes wide, and then over at the oncoming truck, the hunters inside already shouting at each other; Theo swears when he risks a glance at it and sees one of the windows start rolling down and a glossy gun barrel poke out. Malia must see it too, because she gives a sudden, fierce cry and throws Preston back away from herself, Preston hitting the ground with a muted _thud_. Catching her as she staggers, Theo starts pulling her towards the opposite side of the parking lot, both of them clumsy with pain and exhaustion.

“But what about—” Malia pants, looking back over her shoulder at the alpha, still lying paralyzed on the ground behind them.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Theo snaps, and continues to force her to run with him, his hands tangled in her shirt to prevent her from stopping; even as he says it, a spray of gunfire tears up the asphalt around them and Malia curses, speeds up best she can.

Theo doesn’t let her stop until they reach the middle of downtown Chester, and even then he won’t let her stop in an alleyway to rest when she tries to, just grabs her arm and keeps tugging her along until they reach a Mexican restaurant, the dim parking lot half-full of cars. He shushes her when she opens her mouth, clearly about to ask what the hell he’s doing, and looks her over critically; there’s blood matting the hair at the back of her head from where she hit the car but that’s hidden easily enough, her clothes dust-streaked but blood-free.

“Tell me you have a hair-tie,” Theo says, and exhales out in relief when she rolls her eyes and pulls out a black band from her pocket, brandishes it at him, “Put your hair back so the blood doesn’t show.”

She frowns at him but must follow his logic because she doesn’t protest, just works on pulling her hair back while Theo looks down at his own shirt and grimaces, the front of it in tatters and liberally soaked with blood. He fumbles the sides of his jacket together and zips it up over the damage, then looks up at Malia, question clear. Mouth pursing as she darts her eyes over him, her only action is to lick her thumb and then reach forward to scrub at a streak of blood that had apparently made its way up the side of his neck.

The hostess’s smile when they walk into the restaurant is slightly strained—blood or no blood, they still look like they’d just survived some kind of brawl in the middle of a dust storm—but she seats them without comment at a table by the emergency exit, Theo flashing her a warm smile and murmuring his thanks as she changes course at his request. Rolling her eyes behind the hostess’s back as the young woman blushes, Malia drops down into a chair with a huff and then winces, the movement apparently jarring something not-quite-healed.

Theo sits more carefully and accepts the menus from the hostess with another smile, the hostess flushing again and then hurrying off. He waits until she’s gone to slide one of the menus over to Malia, his left arm crossing over his chest protectively as the movement pulls at the claw-marks still sluggishly healing across his ribs.

“Order something,” Theo instructs her.

“What, why?” Malia demands, and shoves the menu back across the table towards him, “What are we even doing here? We need to get back out there and find those hunters, we can’t just sit here.”

Theo glares right back, “As far as those hunters know, we’re the only—” He stops himself from saying _supernaturals_ , eyes flicking around the restaurant, “—members of our particular group here. Which means _they_ are going to be trying to find _us_. We’re laughably outnumbered, and we have no idea where Scott and Argent are, or how far away the others are. So _yes—_ ” He concludes, shoving the menu back at her, “We’re just going to sit here, in this very public place, with all these witnesses, where they’re unlikely to think to look for us. _Order something_.”

Malia’s jaw works but after a few seconds, she picks up the menu. Theo gives it another beat to make sure she’s not going to drop it right back down and try to continue arguing with him, and then he grits his teeth and fumblingly picks up his own, the tips of his left fingers—his left arm still crossed over his chest, Argent’s bracelet catching on one of his jacket’s buttons—stretching out as he does so to press against edges of the four photos hidden in his pocket.

The corners of the photos prick his skin, and Theo closes his eyes briefly and breathes; he just breathes.

\---

Scott comes tearing through the restaurant’s door half an hour later, his eyes wild and immediately seeking out Malia, his scent a roiling mess of anger and stress and _fear_ , all strong enough that Theo nearly gags.

Instead he swallows back the rush of saliva in his mouth, the taste of it spike with the tang of instinctual adrenaline, and stands along with Malia as Scott hurries over, darting between the tables with a speed that’s a little _too_ quick. Once Scott’s reached the table he immediately wraps Malia in a tight hug, his face buried in the side of her neck; Theo can hear him suck in a huge breath as he does, purposefully or not scenting her. He holds her there only briefly and then pulls back, hands coming up to cup the sides of her face—his grip more than a little forceful, based on his white-knuckled fingers, but Malia doesn’t complain—as he looks her over. Almost instantly he slides his left hand forward to touch the back of Malia’s head, no doubt smelling the blood hidden underneath her pulled-up hair.

More than aware of the curious looks they’re getting, Theo steps as far in front of the two of them as he can as he murmurs, “Remember you’ve got an audience,” gently.

He doesn’t look at Scott as he says it, just holds up two twenties in the direction of their waiter, who nods, and then drops the bills on the table. Around them more heads have turned, Scott’s demeanor so obviously distressed and the situation so obviously unusual that they’ve instantly become the center of attention. Biting back a grimace, Theo’s about to turn, put a hand on Scott’s shoulder to encourage him towards the door, when Scott suddenly releases Malia and wheels on him instead, gets a hand on the side of Theo’s neck.

Theo has to swallow back a choked gasp as Scott immediately starts siphoning the pain from the rogue alpha’s claw-marks, his knees going weak and nearly causing him to stumble as he does. Gritting his teeth, Theo covers Scott’s hand with his own—unsure to what extent the black veins might be visible to the people around them, but not particularly willing to risk it—and gently pulls it away.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it, but this isn’t the time,” Theo tells him lowly, jerking his chin towards the door.

Scott’s jaw works, clearly beyond caring, so Theo murmurs _Malia_ , looking for an ally. He’s only mildly surprised when Malia responds by whispering _Scott, c’mon_ , and reaches for Scott’s arm, starts tugging him towards the door. Still obviously reluctant, Scott eventually drags his gaze away from Theo and follows her, Theo on their heels; he can feel several curious eyes on his back as they make it through the door.

Argent’s SUV is idling outside, Argent in the driver’s seat, his tight expression visible even with the dim light and through the windshield. Theo heads immediately for the passenger seat, both out of habit and for shear practical purposes; Scott and Malia are now wrapped firmly around each other, Scott’s arm around her shoulders and his nose buried in her hair, and splitting them up is the absolute _last_ thing Theo finds himself wanting to do. It does mean that the second he finishes pulling himself up and into the seat, biting back a groan as he does, he winds up looking straight into the flared-golden eyes of some shaggy-haired kid in the rearview mirror.

“The hell?” Theo says blankly, turning around to look at the kid, though _kid_ is maybe a little unnecessarily mean; he’s clearly about Theo’s own age, it’s just his terrified expression that makes him look about twelve.

“You missed some things,” Argent tells him shortly, throwing the SUV into drive as Scott and Malia finish sliding into the backseat alongside the newcomer.

Over the course of the ride back to the Almanor pack’s lakehouse, Theo learns several things: that the kid’s name is Alec; that he’s officially a werewolf now, having been bitten by the rogue alpha; that he’d nearly been killed by Monroe’s goons before Scott and Argent had gotten to him; and that by the time Nina, Nathaniel, and the Denio pack betas had gotten to the warehouse parking lot that Theo and Malia had fled, the paralyzed alpha and the hunters—dead and alive—were gone.

“We should have gone back,” Malia growls when Argent’s done relaying all this, shoving away from Scott some and glaring at Theo, who turns to look at her over his shoulder and glares right back.

“If you’re waiting for me to apologize for saving your life, you’re going to be waiting a _long time_ ,” He assures her, feels his own eyes start to flare when hers start glowing an icy blue.

They’re both startled out of their staring match seconds later when Alec makes a startled, pained yelp. He looks up at them when they all jump and turn to stare at him, his eyes wide and golden, his nails grown into sharp-tipped claws and his mouth full of fangs. It’s the fangs that’d been the problem, apparently; from the scent of fresh blood in the air, they’d nicked Alec’s tongue or cheek as they’d lengthened.

“Sorry, sorry,” Alec mumbles, covering his mouth with his hands, “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“It’s _you two_ , ” Argent snaps, eyes flicking between Theo beside him and then up to the rearview to glare at Malia, who glowers mutinously back, “He’s reacting to you, so _knock it the hell off_.”

Theo gives Malia one last pointed look and then turns back forward, wincing and biting off a pained sound as the movement pulls at the gashes on his chest. In the backseat Scott starts murmuring to Alec, trying to calm him down and help him drop the shift, but in the front seat Argent just glances over at him.

“How bad?” He demands; Theo hadn’t been able to give him and Scott that much detail over text from the restaurant, but in the interest of avoiding one of them ripping him a new one later, he _had_ mentioned he’d been injured.

“On a scale of one to Chemult?” Theo starts, rolling his head to look at him with a smirk that’s only slightly strained, “This is a papercut.”

Argent huffs an equally-strained laugh and shakes his head, but the quip breaks some of the tension in the cab, and the rest of the ride back to the lakehouse is relatively calm, the shift finally fading from Alec’s still-petrified face and hands as they pull into the driveway. Taking a deep breath as Malia, Scott, and Argent all open their doors and pile out—Alec doing the same after a startled second when Scott says his name gently—Theo braces himself and pushes open his door, prepares to hop down.

He doesn’t get the chance, though; Scott appears in his doorway in the next instant, Theo having to fight the urge to jolt backwards in surprise. Scott holds out a hand, and Theo _could_ make the mistake of thinking the action is entirely chivalrous, but for one thing he’s not an idiot, and for another the hard look on Scott’s face says different, so Theo swallows down the first—and second—glib remarks he wants to make and just accepts Scott’s help. The second he slaps his palm against Scott’s, Scott starts taking his pain, and this time Theo _does_ stagger as he climbs down out of the SUV, Scott steadying him with his free hand.

“Alright, lets see it,” Scott orders, and then adds before Theo can open his mouth, “And if you try to tell me that not going inside right away is some kind of diplomatic insult, I’m going to call bullshit.”

Theo sighs heavily, “It’s not going to be a diplomatic insult, but—”

“What did I _just—_ ” Scott starts to snap, so Theo continues talking over him, deliberately raising his voice to drown out Scott’s protest.

“I’m not taking my shirt off in the middle of Nahum’s driveway!” Theo finishes in a near-shout, meeting Scott glare for glare, “There’s no need to give the woodland creatures a show, Scott—the house is twenty yards away.”

Over Scott’s shoulder, and awkwardly sandwiched between Malia and Argent—both of whom just look longsuffering—Alec is staring at them like he’s not sure whether he’s supposed to understand what’s going on.

“Not to mention,” Theo continues, partially to be an ass but mostly because it’s _true_ , “Diplomatic insult aside, unless you and Argent somehow inferred a whole lot of context from the limited texts Malia and I could send you from that restaurant _and_ managed to share all that information with the others, we need to go update everyone on what happened. _I’m not arguing_ ,” Theo hurries to add as Scott’s hard look starts to go nuclear, “I’m suggesting we multitask.”

It’s clear Scott’s not happy about it, but he must see the logic, because he finally steps back from where he’d been cornering Theo back between the SUV and door; he _does_ gesture Theo before him, though. He gestures _all_ of them in front of himself, in fact, and Theo feels a pang of sympathy, his own annoyance at Scott’s overbearing behavior cracking and crumbling away. Grimacing, Theo finds himself glancing at Malia, trudging along beside him, and finds her looking back, an equally-knowing look on her face. _She’s_ still not happy with him either, clearly, but she huffs a breath and bumps her shoulder against Theo’s briefly, then goes right back to ignoring him.

Theo starts to regret his multitasking suggestion when they make it into the house, Shohreh and Nahum immediately catching them as they stumble in. Both of them can smell the blood on Theo, Malia, and Alec, which means Theo very nearly ends up half-naked _anyway_ —just in Nahum’s foyer rather than his driveway—as they demand to see the claw-marks from the rogue alpha. Malia and Alec get off a little easier; Malia’s in the middle of lifting up her hair to show Nahum the already-healed gash from her head’s impact with the car, and Alec’s in the middle of lifting up his pant leg to show his healed crossbow bolt injury, when the rest of the absent pack members all spill back in as well.

The addition of another eleven people—let alone stressed-out werewolves—means the shitshow dial gets cranked up to eleven, but after a whole lot of confused cacophony, everyone talking over each other and absolutely _no one_ able to hear a word, Shohreh puts two fingers in her mouth and lets out a sharp whistle that immediately cuts through the noise. After that it’s straightforward enough, Scott and Argent first explaining how they’d found Alec—who waves hesitantly, looking both deathly pale and somehow sickly green at the same time at the attention—and then Theo and Malia tag-team a recap of their fight with the rogue alpha and the hunters.

“And you think the hunters were chasing the alpha,” Nahum confirms with Theo, gaze steady and watchful on Theo’s face.

“Seemed like,” Theo answers, though as he says it, he can feel that self-same insistent, _pricking_ feeling he’d had back when Rossler had murmured _why don’t you step away from our_ delinquent _friend_ eating at him; some puzzle piece missing, some realization he couldn’t yet grasp.

Shohreh hums, “Well, as intriguing as that is, if we keep you standing here any longer without letting Mr. McCall tend to your injuries, he’s going to vibrate out of his skin.”

Scott jerks and looks at her, flushing—he _had_ been staring between Theo and Malia intensely, but apparently had thought he was being subtle about it—but she just smiles softly at him.

“Let me show you upstairs,” Nahum offers, sweeping an arm out towards the stairs, “You all can get cleaned up while the rest of us continue to talk.”

The bathroom Nahum shows Theo to—followed closely by Scott, Malia and Alec already deposited in other bathrooms—is as stunningly beautiful as the rest of his house, and Theo grimaces as he looks at the pristine tile of the shower and imagines dripping blood all over it. He doesn’t have much of a choice, though; the second Nahum steps out of the room, Scott wheels on him.

Theo doesn’t even try to fight him, just exhales out a quiet breath and then gestures to his shirt and jacket, tells him, “I could use some help.”

Scott almost definitely knows he’s being humored, but he doesn’t seem to care; he immediately steps forward and helps Theo slide his jacket off his shoulders. Theo’s expecting him to drop it—it’s beyond saving, the blood from Theo’s injured torso having soaked through the front of it—but Scott just folds it carefully and sets it on the bathroom counter. The act is enough to knock Theo out of his rhythm for a moment as he stares at Scott, taken aback; the last time they’d been in a similar position, Theo had stopped Scott from tossing his jacket away, and this time Scott had stopped _himself_.

“Everything okay?” Scott prompts after a few seconds, meeting Theo’s eyes curiously, and Theo snaps out of it.

“Yeah, sorry,” Theo mutters, shaking his head to clear it.

Scott doesn’t press it, just frowns down at Theo’s ruined shirt, clearly debating how to get it off him without exacerbating the still-healing injury below it.

“Should’ve brought the medical kit in from Argent’s Mary Poppins vehicle, I guess,” Theo says, and Scott huffs a quiet laugh.

“Should’ve given the woodland creatures a show after all,” Scott returns slyly, and grins when his statement startles a louder laugh out of Theo.

In the end Scott resorts to the easiest and fastest method either of them can think of, which involves Scott deliberately shifting the first two claws of his right hand so that he can finish slicing through the already-tattered fabric. The claw-marks are nearly healed, Scott’s pain-draining at the restaurant and out in the driveway giving Theo’s body the boost it needed to finish closing up the wounds. Scott still looks at them critically for a long few moments, and Theo can _see_ him debating whether to insist on cleaning and wrapping them, but finally he simply straightens, the last of the tension draining away from his shoulders, though a somewhat sheepish expression creeps onto his face as it does.

“I, uh. I guess you really were fine,” He admits, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck; it’s what Theo had claimed over text, already knowing even as he’d typed it that Scott wasn’t going to believe him.

Theo just gives him a flicker of a smile and replies, “Trust but verify,” airily; the remark works as he’d intended it to, and Scott smiles back, shakes himself a little as he seems to resettle himself.

“I’m going to go check on Malia and Alec, and then I’ll grab your bag from your truck so you can change. Need anything else?” Scott asks.

“No, but you might,” Theo answers before Scott can finish turning to leave, fishing his truck keys from his pocket and dangling them in front of Scott’s face; Scott laughs under his breath, his head dropping low on his neck for a brief, self-aware moment, and then he brings it back up, takes the keys.

Theo’s out of the shower fifteen minutes later and has just pulled on a clean pair of jeans from his bag, left by Scott on the counter, when the bathroom door creaks open and Alec appears in the doorway, then freezes as he catches sight of Theo.

“Oh, um. Sorry,” Alec starts, blinking and looking _supremely_ confused, “I was just looking for Scott. I don’t—I don’t know why I thought he’d be in here.”

Theo quirks him an easy smile as he reaches into his bag again, this time rooting around for a clean shirt, “That would be your nose.” He tells Alec in answer to his pseudo-question as he finds a cotton tee and pulls it over his head, “You smelled him, even if you didn’t realize it—he was just here.”

“Oh,” Alec replies, and doesn’t necessarily look less confused.

Theo sympathizes; he may not have been bitten like Alec, but he’d spent the first few weeks after his transformation into a chimera stumbling around wondering how he just _knew things_ sometimes, the information coming to him seemingly out of thin air. Immediately on the heels of that thought is a reminder of _how_ and _why_ he’d become a chimera, and Theo feels his chest clench, his right hand instinctively moving for his jacket pocket and its collection of photos before he remembers that he isn’t wearing it. Seeing his jacket out of the corner of his eye—folded exactly where Scott had left it—he touches his fingertips to it, searching for the distinct feeling of the photos pressing against his skin.

“Is that a werewolf thing?” Alec suddenly asks, and Theo jerks, suddenly remembering Alec’s presence.

Frowning, Theo glances sideways at him, “Is what a werewolf thing?”

“That,” Alec answers, gesturing towards Theo’s outstretched arm, then clarifies further when he realizes that Theo still doesn’t know what he’s referring to, “That bracelet. The man—the _werewolf_ —who attacked me, he was wearing one, too.”

Theo feels his breath freeze in his chest, but it must not be obvious to Alec because he just keeps talking.

“Though now that I think about it, he, um. He didn’t seem to like it,” Alec continues, clearly talking himself into this revelation as he says it, “He kept clawing at it, like it was hurting him or something.”

He stops and stares at Theo, blinking, who stares right back at him, completely lost for words. _The alpha Rossler and Monroe’s other goons were chasing was wearing a tracking bracelet_ , Theo thinks, the revelation landing heavily in his mind and scattering his thoughts. And then he remembers Rossler’s phrasing when he’d ordered Theo to step away from the rogue alpha, thinks about the missing _something_ that he’d been worrying at all night, and mentally amends: _the alpha that Monroe was keeping as some kind of prisoner_ —Rossler’s _delinquent_ friend— _was wearing a tracking bracelet_.

There are all kinds of alarms going off in Theo’s head, the realization mixing with the rest of what Theo knows of Monroe and her plans, but he doesn’t get a chance to fully digest any of it; Scott appears over Alec’s shoulder, Alec yelping and jumping about a mile high in surprise, and the whole train of thought derails.

Scott cuts off mid-apology to Alec when he realizes that Theo is just staring at him blankly, “Uh, hey. You ready? They’re waiting downstairs.”

“Yeah,” Theo says immediately, automatically; entirely by rote, muscle-memory, his mind still a whirling, chaotic mess, “Yeah, I’ll be down in a second.”

Scott studies him for a few seconds longer, clearly thrown and on the verge of becoming concerned, but then someone yells _Scott, let’s go_ from downstairs—Argent, from the sound of it—and Scott jumps, turns to yell _we’re coming_. Glancing back over his shoulder at Theo, he gives it another beat and then looks away from Theo to look at Alec instead, smiles at him and motions him out of the doorway, towards the stairs. Scott hesitates a moment longer but Theo’s ready this time, nods at him when Scott gives him one last look, his message clear: _go on, be there in a second_.

But Theo stays standing exactly where he is once Scott has disappeared, following Alec towards the stairs. Instead he brings his left wrist up in front of his body, stares at the rune-etched leather around his wrist. Slowly, _slowly_ , he reaches over and wraps the fingers of his right hand over and around it until it’s completely hidden from view, thoughts racing, his whole understanding of Monroe’s plans—what he’d _thought_ he’d known of them—shifting, shifting, new realizations and potentialities _click-click-clicking_ into place.

Then he drops his hand— _both_ his hands—and heads for the doorway.

\---

Liam is waiting at Theo’s apartment when he gets back from Almanor three days later, but this time Theo’s expecting it, since he’d been the one to tell him—staring down at his phone in Nahum’s guest bedroom the night of Alec’s attack, before finally gritting his teeth and opening his text thread with Liam—about what had happened.

“Theo, jesus,” Liam says as Theo comes through the door, rocketing to his feet and immediately coming forward.

“I’m fine,” Theo cuts in before Liam can continue, tossing his duffel bag to the side and reaching back behind himself to roll the door back shut.

He knows Liam isn’t going to believe him, and Liam doesn’t, his mouth twisting in a hard frown as he comes to a stop directly in front of Theo, “Yeah, that’s exactly what you said that time you’d had a hole punched through your chest.”

“This isn’t like that,” Theo counters, and finds himself surprised by how— _gentle_ his own voice is, “I got clawed up, sure, but the marks healed within a few days. Just like—” and here his voice goes even _more_ gentle, “—both me _and_ Scott told you they had.”

“Yeah, well,” Liam mutters, though he colors some as he says it, “Scott’s been known to downplay injuries, too.”

That’s really only partially true—Scott’s been known to downplay his _own_ injuries, but never anyone else’s—but Theo lets it go, Liam’s expression still pinched and his scent still a hot, tangled mess. So Theo exhales out quietly and bites the bullet, takes hold of the bottom of his shirt with his right hand and lifts it so that Liam can see his torso; unmarked and perfectly healed.

“I really am fine,” Theo repeats softly.

He meets Liam’s eyes when Liam glances up at him from where he’d been staring at Theo’s chest, and feels his breath catch. Liam’s eyes are bright, and open, his distress—faded some, now, but still there—right there for all to see, and Theo has to tear his gaze away, has to release his hold on his shirt so that it falls back down, another barrier between them. It’s in the process of trying to avoid looking at Liam that he ends up looking over Liam’s shoulder, and then he blinks at what he sees, surprised.

“Is that a couch?” Theo asks blankly, staring at what is most _definitely_ a couch, sat where the abandoned futon used to be, the futon now turned perpendicular to make something that actually does resemble the start of a living room; there’s even a scuffed-up coffee table arranged between the two.

Liam turns to look at it over his shoulder, “Oh, uh. Yeah. The Taylors are redesigning their basement and were giving away a bunch of stuff.”

His voice is rough and rasping a little and the burr of it pricks at Theo, so in an effort to shake it off—and to get _away_ , Theo only then realizing that he and Liam had been standing close enough to be practically sharing air—Theo steps around Liam and walks over to the couch, frowns down at it thoughtfully.

“Who are the Taylors?” He asks after a beat, glancing back at Liam as Liam comes to join him.

“Family with a house on one of the routes Derek and I run,” Liam answers, tapping a distracted toe against the edge of the couch as he does.

“You convinced Derek to help you get me a couch,” Theo muses, mildly impressed; his relationship with Derek had maybe progressed from that first night when Derek had all but threatened to rip Theo’s throat out if he got too close to Stiles, but Theo wouldn’t exactly call them _friends_ , “What are you going to do with it when I leave?”

He asks the question absently, genuinely curious, but when he looks up at Liam in the resulting silence, Liam is staring at him, brow furrowed. His expression is tight, and as Theo watches it gets tighter, as Liam searches Theo’s face and apparently doesn’t like whatever he finds.

“What?” Theo finally demands after a few long, uncomfortable seconds of scrutiny.

But Liam just drops his head down and away from Theo, though not fast enough for Theo to entirely miss the way that his expression spasms with frustration and what looks a lot like _hurt_ , “You’re still planning on leaving.”

Theo just stares at him; at the side of his face, since Liam won’t look at him, “What? Yeah, of _course_ I’m still planning on leaving, Liam. That was the—”

“If you say _the deal you made_ , I swear to god I’m going to punch you,” Liam threatens, and whirls away from him, stalking a few feet away before stopping.

Theo stares at the back of his tense shoulders, feeling as off-balanced and wrong-footed as if someone had just yanked a rug out from underneath him, “What is _wrong_ with you?” He demands after a stunned second, “You’ve known that was the plan since the beginning.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Liam spits out, spinning around to face him again, “Are we allowed to talk about this now? Because the last time I tried to have an opinion about your _deal_ , you wouldn’t let me.”

“Liam—” Theo starts, feels his own brow furrow with the force of his confusion; feels his chest twist as he catches a lungful of Liam’s hot, unhappy scent.

“No, you know what?” Liam interrupts, “ _Fuck_ you. Don’t act like your stupid deal is the unwritten law of the universe or whatever. _You_ were the one who forced that on _us_.”

_On me_ , Liam means; Theo knows that’s what he means. But he doesn’t know what to do with that, so he does the only thing he can think of; he lets the curdling mass of _something_ in his own chest—wrenched tight by the sight and smell of Liam’s distress—harden into anger of his own.

“You want to talk about this? _Fine_ ,” Theo snarls, “Then you tell me. What other options do you think I have, Liam? What else do you think I can do?”

“I don’t know, Theo!” Liam snaps back, “I don’t know because you’ve never bothered to _ask_ _me_ what I think. You’ve never bothered to ask me what I think about any of this, you just avoid the topic or deflect or outright _lie_ about it.”

“Lie?” Theo repeats incredulously, taking an angry step towards Liam as he does, “ _Lie_? When have I _ever_ lied to you about anything that’s happened the last few months?”

“You nearly died!” Liam shouts back, taking his own step forward and—and shoving Theo, who staggers back, shocked; it hadn’t _hurt_ , but he sure as hell hadn’t _expected_ it, “Quentin nearly _killed you_ , and when I asked you about it, you told me you were fine!”

“I _was_ fine!” Theo yells back, coming back forward and getting right back up into Liam’s space, “I’m sorry I didn’t want to worry you over a shit situation that you had no control over, but that doesn’t mean I was lying!”

“Didn’t want to worry me,” Liam repeats, and Theo feels his gut twist uncomfortably; he hadn’t exactly meant to let that out. But then Liam suddenly reaches forward and grabs his arm—his _left_ arm—and spits, “Like you didn’t want to worry me about whatever the hell this is?”

He holds up Theo’s arm between them, Argent’s bracelet wrapped around his wrist, and Theo feels a spike of fear go bolting through him, rips his arm out of Liam’s grip.

“It’s a bracelet, Liam. I’m sure you’ve heard of them,” Theo replies nastily, though he undermines his own point when he wraps his right fingers over the leather, hiding it from view.

“I’m not an idiot, Theo,” Liam snaps, “The night all this started, you’re not wearing that. Then you make your deal and disappear somewhere for an hour, with _Argent_ of all people, and suddenly you are. You _never_ take it off, because you _can’t_ , can you? There’s no seam. You’ve never lied to me about any of this? Here’s your chance to tell me the truth. What is it?”

“Liam—” Theo starts, unsure how he even plans to finish, but it doesn’t matter; Liam cuts him off.

“ _What is it?_ ” He snarls, and makes another grab for Theo’s arm.

Snatching his arm back out of the way, Theo snaps, “It’s a tracking bracelet, alright!” He stops after he’s said it, looking at Liam, who’d frozen, staring wide-eyed back at him, “It’s a tracking bracelet. Argent—Argent made Deaton put it on me that night, to make sure that I wouldn’t run.”

“Argent—Argent made—” Liam repeats blankly, clearly taken aback, though his anger comes roaring right back when he continues, “And Scott _let him_?”

“Scott didn’t know,” Theo disagrees shortly, and feels a jolt of _something_ —something that feels a lot like guilt—go through him.

“And you didn’t bother to tell him,” Liam interprets, and scoffs angrily, throwing up his hands and clenching them in his hair.

“What good would it have done?” Theo counters shortly, Liam’s frustration eating at him and sparking his fading anger right back up into flame.

“What good would it…?” Liam starts incredulously, then he leans back into Theo’s space and snarls, “Scott would _never_ have agreed to putting that on you, and you know that. You know that he’d never agree to keep it on you _now_ if you brought it up to him. Just like—” And here his voice starts to rise, “ _—just like_ he wouldn’t have made you go to Chemult if you’d actually put _any_ real effort into explaining to him what was going to happen, but you _didn’t_. You just _went_. You let Argent put that _stupid_ collar on you, and you just went.”

“If you’re trying to make a point, you should stop beating around the bush and just make it,” Theo snaps, each of Liam’s words pricking at him; too close to the truth.

“My _point_ , ” Liam hisses, “is that I’ve seen you talk your way out of jail cells— _twice_ , in fact!—and yet now, _now_ , when your life _literally depends on it_ , you suddenly can’t be bothered? My point, Theo, is _what the fuck is wrong with you lately_?”

He stops, chest heaving, and glares at Theo, who meets his eyes. Liam’s still-human, bright eyes, open and honest and with nothing to hide, and all the anger in Theo’s chest just—crumbles. It just cracks and crumbles and leaves behind _exhaustion_.

Theo—Theo is just exhausted.

“How many people do you think I’ve killed?” Theo asks Liam finally, and his voice isn’t angry anymore, or frustrated or embarrassed or _anything_ ; it just is.

“...what?” Liam responds after a moment, obviously knocked completely off-track.

“How many people do you think I’ve killed, Liam?” Theo simply repeats. Then, when Liam still doesn’t say anything, he adds, “C’mon, take a guess. Give me a number, any number.”

“Theo…” Liam whispers, his shoulders still and the anger gone from _his_ face, from his scent, replaced with confusion—he clearly hadn’t expected this turn in the conversation—and not a little concern.

But Theo doesn’t _care_ ; he can’t care. He just tips his chin up a few inches in challenge and pastes an easy smile onto his lips as he says, faux-brightly, “Here, I’ll give you a hint, make it easy. Let’s go in reverse order.”

“Theo, wait—” Liam tries, taking a step forward.

But Theo just takes a step backwards, talks over him, “There were the hunters at the hospital during Monroe’s initial attack, and the Ghost Riders during the Wild Hunt. But you’re right,” Theo admits, even though Liam hadn’t said anything, is still just staring at him, stricken, “Those are a little morally gray, aren’t they? So let’s set those aside.”

“ _Theo_ ,” Liam repeats insistently.

He takes another step forward as he says it so Theo takes another step back, continues mercilessly, “Tracy. Josh. I tried to kill Mason. I _would_ have killed Corey if I could have found him. Scott, even though that one didn’t stick. I left Malia to die. I put Lydia in Eichen House to be tortured and experimented on. And we haven’t even _gotten_ to all the people I helped kill indirectly. All the Beast’s victims. All the Dread Doctors’. And that’s just Beacon Hills!”

He’s beginning to sound a little hysterical and he knows it, but it’s like some kind of flood has broken loose, and he can’t stop himself, no matter how distressed Liam looks; no matter how much Theo hates himself for putting that look on his face.

“I was with the Dread Doctors for a long time, Liam,” Theo reminds him, “There were other towns. Other _experiments_. There was Ailene—” His voice breaks on her name and he has to swallow, has to try again, “Ailene and Anthony Storo, formally of the Chemult pack. There was—”

But Liam says, “Stop.”

Liam begs, “Theo, stop. Please,” and Theo can’t go on.

They stand there in the horrible, echoing silence of Theo’s near-empty apartment, the bare brick walls almost seeming to echo Theo’s confessions back to them, the very air seeming heavy, like Theo had summoned all his ghosts into the room with them. Theo looks at Liam, at the top of his bowed head, watches as he brings his hands up to his face and covers his mouth, his shoulders shuddering with his uneven breaths. _I did that_ , Theo forces himself to think, _just like the rest of it_.

“I killed them, Liam. I killed my _sister_ , ” Liam looks up at him, his hands still half-covering his face, his eyes heavy in the dim light, and Theo forces himself to continue, “I can’t just—just pretend that none of it ever happened. That it wasn’t my _fault_. So I have to leave, you understand? I _have to_. Because if I don’t—”

His voice cracks and he has to stop, has to tear his gaze away from Liam’s.

“If I don’t, if I tried to stay, I’d be forcing Scott, and Corey, and Malia and Lydia and the rest of the pack to find some way to live with me, even knowing everything that I’ve done. And even if by some—some _miracle_ they could find a way to forgive me…”

He stops. He has to stop, his next words sticking in his throat and choking him. But they need saying; they need to be _said_.

And so he swallows once, twice, and then he looks back up at Liam, voice so quiet as to almost be a whisper as he forces himself to finish, to finally _admit_ , “I can’t.”

He shudders as he says it, the words falling like a hammer, like a gavel; final and immutable. No way to take them back, no way to pretend that he’d never said them, that he didn’t recognize the weight of them. So he lets himself squeeze his eyes shut, lets himself hide from the truth he’d just forced out into the light for just a few seconds longer, and then he opens them back up and looks back at Liam as he says it again:

“I can’t forgive me.”

Liam’s whole face just _crumples_ , and Theo feels his own start to do the same, so he covers his face with his hands, turns away. He isn’t really planning on going anywhere—there isn’t anywhere to _go_ —but Liam still suddenly gasps out, “Theo, wait, don’t…!”

Except that Theo’s phone rings right at that moment, and even on silent the vibration is enough to cut through the tense air of the apartment and make both of them jump. Blinking quickly, the interruption derailing some of his mounting despair, cracking the swelling hollow at the center of his chest, Theo scrubs his face with the heels of his palms and clears his throat, reaches into his pocket for his phone.

He looks briefly at the screen and then answers it, bringing it up to his ear as he says, “Scott, hey.”

He doesn’t look at Liam as he does, just brings his free hand up and rakes it through his hair, though he can feel Liam’s gaze burning against the side of his face.

“What? No, I’m fine. What’s up?” He continues, his left hand—his _braceleted_ left hand—dropping to rub at the center of his chest; at the painful twist there, “Yeah, I can be there in twenty. Yeah. Okay. See you soon.”

He hangs up and slides his phone back into his pocket, tilts his head slightly so that he can look at Liam, though he can’t look at him straight-on, and he keeps his eyes cast down, glued to the rapid rise-and-fall of Liam’s chest.

“I’ve got to go,” He tells him, and takes another instinctive step back when Liam makes a protesting noise and steps towards him, “You’ve got a key, lock up when you leave.”

And then he turns on his heel and _flees_ , ignoring Liam yelling his name behind him. He ignores that and the clawing, tangled mess of shame and fear and _grief_ in his chest and he slams down the stairs, out of the building and into his truck, throws it into drive. There’s a panicked voice in the back of his head that won’t stop shrieking but Theo shoves it aside, focuses on getting out of the parking lot, onto the road and heading towards Scott’s.

But ten minutes later, his truck the only vehicle stopped at an intersection, Theo feels his expression spasm out of its forcefully neutral hold and he gives a wounded cry, folds over himself—over the painful hollow between his ribs—and slams the heel of his right hand into the steering wheel once, twice; three times. He slumps over after the last one, his palm stinging, and rests his forehead on the top of the wheel for a few harsh, panting breaths.

Then, swallowing, he reaches into his right pocket and takes out the photos of his sister, of Josh, of Tracy, of Ailene and Anthony Storo. The edges of all four of them are stained with his blood, now, tucked in his old jacket pocket as they had been when Theo had had to zip it up over his bloodied chest after the rogue alpha attack, but that just seems _right_ , somehow; seems just. Staring at them, his cheeks stinging and his chest heaving, Theo sucks in one deep breath, then another, until he can finally grasp the frayed edges of his control, his composure, start pulling both back together.

And then he sits up and carefully replaces the photos back in his pocket, ignoring his phone tossed carelessly on the passenger seat ringing and ringing and ringing, Liam’s name flashing on the screen, and he finishes driving to Scott’s.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later and sat in the passenger seat of Argent’s SUV, four to-go coffees tucked in a paper drink carrier balanced on his thighs and a bag of breakfast sandwiches warming his left hip, Theo startles when Argent suddenly interrupts the quiet ride to say, “Do you want to tell _me_ what’s going on with you and Liam?”

Theo realizes that Argent had been looking at Theo’s phone, which had vibrated on top of the coffees with an incoming text that Theo had quickly glanced at and then ignored, locking his screen immediately. Grimacing, Theo slides his phone off the drinks, tucks it away in his pocket, his fingers brushing the slick surfaces of the photos hidden away there as he does it. It vibrates again as he takes his hand out, but Theo just grits his teeth, leaves his phone where it is.

He knows why Argent’s asking. Yesterday morning, sat in a truck-stop diner at ass o’clock in the morning on the way down to Fresno, Scott had looked at Theo—both of their phones vibrating furiously with texts—and had said _do you want to tell me what’s going on with you and Liam_ , and Theo had responded with a simple, hard _nope_ that had brooked absolutely no argument. Scott had considered pushing it—Theo could see the thought crossing his face—but eventually he’d let it go, let the conversation turn back to Monroe and whatever she was planning, wherever she was.

But Theo’s spent the past forty-eight hours with a fucking _rock_ caught right in the middle of his throat, his chest alternating between a gaping, painful hollow and a squirming, sickening mess, and maybe he _does_ want to tell Argent. Argent isn’t Scott, after all; no risk of sentimentality muddying up otherwise crystal-clear waters.

“Liam’s just…” Theo eventually starts, though he has to stop and clear his throat, the words—Liam’s _name_ —sticking, “He’s just refusing to accept reality.”

He keeps his eyes straight ahead as he says it, doesn’t turn even when Argent glances over at him again. There’s a part of himself that wants to leave it at that, but he can feel the rest of the explanation pressing at the backs of his teeth, his eyes falling sightlessly down to his lap, to the stark white lids of the coffee cups between his hands.

“He’d gotten it into his head somehow that I was maybe staying, after we stop Monroe,” Theo continues finally, fingers starting to absently pick at the lids, the carrier, “He thinks me leaving is—is running away, or something.”

When he darts a look at Argent, Argent is nodding slowly, a considering expression on his face, his fingers tapping idly at the steering wheel.

“And what do you think it is?” Argent asks, tipping his head to meet Theo’s eyes.

Theo holds Argent’s gaze for a beat, and then he lets his own fall away, down and back over until he’s back to looking at the cups in his lap, at his hands holding them steady; at the dark leather of Argent’s bracelet wrapped around his wrist.

“The only thing I can do,” Theo answers, and can’t stop the way that his whole body flinches, his shoulders hunching and his lips twisting in a grimace; the harsh truth of it had maybe started to hurt less than when he’d been confessing it to Liam, laying it out between them like his own impenetrable line in the sand, but it still _hurt_.

Argent hums thoughtfully. They drive in silence for another half a minute or so, and then Argent asks, “Any idea what you’re going to do after that? After you leave?”

“Maybe,” Theo says after a second, his right arm pressing against his side to feel the photos in his pocket; to feel the photo of Ailene and Anthony Storo, “Shohreh...Shohreh told me to come see her, after it’s all done. I’ll start there, maybe. See if—if she has some way for me to…”

He trails off, suddenly reluctant to continue; Argent is Argent, after all—no sentimentality to muddy up otherwise clear waters, and Theo’s hazily imagined quest for some kind of way back would be the height of sentimentality. Swallowing, Theo turns his head away, towards the window, and just leaves the sentence hanging. Argent doesn’t push him. In fact, Argent doesn’t respond for a few minutes, long enough that Theo begins to think that that’s the end of it; question asked and answered. But then Argent looks over at him again.

“Do you want to stay?” He asks, and there’s nothing that Theo can hear, that he can to pick at to uncover Argent’s reason for asking.

So Theo just stares at him, taken back, though the answer to that is simple enough, “I don’t think what I want matters.”

But Argent just looks at him steadily, “That’s not what I asked.”

“Yeah, but it _is_ the part that’s relevant,” Theo retorts, his voice starting to rise as frustration—frustration and _grief_ —start to curdle in his chest, “I mean, hell—you know that better than any of us. You’ve known that since the _beginning_.”

He holds up his left arm in illustration, the smooth leather and the dark runes of the bracelet glistening dully in the morning light. He doesn’t mean it as an accusation or an attack—it’s just a perfect encapsulation of the truth—but Argent still grimaces as he looks at the bracelet, his expression spasming with—something.

“Theo, look—” Argent starts to say, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

He continues after that but Theo doesn’t hear it, his head snapping back forward as he stares out the windshield, Argent having just turned them into the motel’s pitted and sun-bleached parking lot and a scent immediately catching Theo’s attention. Pulse starting to pound and adrenaline flooding like molten copper over the back of his tongue, Theo sucks in another huge lungful of air and feels his breath freeze in his chest.

“Argent,” Theo interrupts, turning to stare at him with wide eyes.

Argent cuts himself off instantly, “What is it?”

“Blood,” Theo tells him blankly, “Blood and wolfsbane.”

They stare at each other for a few long, stretched seconds, Argent screeching to a stop in the middle of the lot, and then Theo lunges for the door handle and wrenches it open. He ignores Argent yelling his name behind him, ignores the way that the coffees spill from his lap and crash to the ground, the lids popping off and sending liquid gushing in all directions, and takes off for Scott’s and Malia’s room. As he reaches the stairs up to the second floor rooms he spots what he’d smelled, blood— _lots_ of blood—spattered around the end of the stairwell and streaking away as tire tracks, and he skids to a stop, staring at it in horror.

“Theo, jesus!” Argent snaps as he runs up, his SUV parked _somewhere_ and his gun in his hands. When he catches sight of the blood he stops dead, too, and then swallows and looks at Theo, “Whose is it?”

“Scott’s,” Theo answers mechanically, “Scott’s and a few humans I don’t recognize.”

That’s not strictly speaking true—Theo recognizes the scent of Rossler’s blood—but now isn’t the time. Jerking his gaze upwards towards Scott’s and Malia’s room, Theo takes a few harsh, panting breaths and then takes off again, Argent on his heels.

The door to Scott’s and Malia’s room is ruined, the wood around the lock splintered and the hinges twisted where they aren’t altogether broken. There’s blood here, too, several stark black handprints; the hunters must have dragged a bleeding and likely still-struggling Scott through the door. Shoving aside his horror, and his anger, and his _terror_ , Theo slams through the door with his shoulder, knocking it back against the wall beside it with a crash loud enough to cause his head to ring.

It’s also loud enough to cause Malia—flat on her back in the space between the bed and the TV stand, her shirt soaked with black blood and her mouth covered with the same—to cough and moan, her head tossing weakly.

“Malia,” Theo breathes, and bolts over to her, dropping to his knees beside her and forcefully ignoring the way that the carpet _squelches_ wetly as he does.

He gets his hands around her head, turns it towards himself gently as Malia blinks heavily, obviously trying to focus on him. _No, no, no_ , Theo thinks, half-hysterically, black veins streaking up his wrists as he immediately starts siphoning her pain.

“Argent!” He yells frantically, half over his shoulder, his eyes still locked on Malia’s slack, hazy expression.

Argent comes tearing through the doorway seconds later, and Theo hears him breathe _oh my god_ as he catches sight of Malia.

“We need wolfsbane ashes,” Theo tells him hoarsely, even though he _knows_ that Argent knows that, “We need—”

“What strand?” Argent interrupts him, and then snarls, “Theo! What _strand?_ ,” when Theo doesn’t answer him quickly enough.

Theo blinks several times, snapped out of his spiraling thoughts. Staring at Malia’s heavy-lidded eyes, her bloody, gasped-open mouth, he deliberately clears his mind and inhales in a deep breath, concentrating.

“Western monkshood,” He answers after a beat, a forced calm replacing his earlier panic, though his voice is still rough, “They used western monkshood.”

Argent’s off like a shot immediately after, headed back down to his SUV and its for-all-exigencies collection of supplies. Mind clearing, Theo pulls his hands away from Malia’s face—Malia moaning at the loss—and starts searching her body, looking for her injuries. There are three bullet wounds he can find—two in her chest and one in her left thigh—and Theo’s in the process of carefully slicing open her shirt with his claws to get to them when Argent reappears, a vial of tiny purple flowers and a lighter in his hands.

Theo stands so that Argent can take his place, Argent’s hands already moving to tap the flowers out of the glass vial and into his hand, pack them into the bullet holes Theo had revealed. Attention on slicing open Malia’s jeans to get at the wound on her thigh, Theo hears but doesn’t see Argent flick the lighter. But in the next instant he has to swear and dart down over Malia’s legs, holding her still as she shrieks and jackknifes upwards in pain.

“You’re okay, Malia,” Argent murmurs to her as she pants out harsh, wounded cries; Theo chances a look upwards in time to see Argent smooth a tender hand over her forehead as he continues, “You’re going to be okay.”

Then he looks down at Theo, eyes hard, and Theo immediately moves back out of the way so that Argent can reach the wound on Malia’s thigh. Swiveling around, Theo kneels above Malia’s head, replaces his hands on the sides of her face so that he can touch her skin, start taking her pain again. She moans weakly in response, but this time when Argent lights the flowers in her wound, she just gives a choked, bitten-off groan, her shoulders arching.

When she collapses back down, her head lolling and her breathing stuttering, the bullet wounds are healed, the black tendrils of rot and poison that had been creeping out from them gone, and Malia sighs out a long, slow breath, her eyes fluttering closed as she passes out. Letting out a huge, gasping breath, Theo lets his head hang low on his neck, his hands falling away from Malia’s face to brace himself, his arms shaking.

“Fuck,” He rasps out, then again: “ _Fuck_.”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Argent suddenly says, his expression pinched when Theo raises his eyes to look up at him, “Why would Monroe attack _now_? And why would she take Scott rather than kill him?”

And Theo—Theo could maybe feign ignorance, or better yet could find some way to talk Argent into the right answer, same as he’s done a half-dozen times now, but it’s _pointless_ , now; Monroe just changed all the rules. Monroe just changed the entire _game_. So Theo squeezes his eyes shut briefly and then opens them, pushes himself to his feet and takes a few steps away from Malia; from Argent, still kneeling by her side.

“She must have figured out how to make it work,” Theo tells him, and forces himself to meet Argent’s eyes in the resulting loaded silence, his heart starting to race; all his secrets about to come out.

“Make _what_ work?” Argent asks slowly, the barest beginnings of suspicion in his eyes as his hunter’s intuition snaps taut.

Theo nearly wavers but then he grits his teeth, holds up his left wrist, “This. The bracelets. She must have found the rest of the spell, how to turn them into something that _controls_ rather than just _tracks_.”

A spasm of something crosses Argent’s face, too fast for Theo to catch, but he doesn’t need to see it to identify it; even if he couldn’t smell the quick spike of it in Argent’s scent, Theo is a goddamn _expert_ on guilt.

“How do you know…How did you figure out…” Argent breathes, staring at him. Then, his suspicion flaring into full-blown distrust, he suddenly demands, “More importantly, how the _hell_ do you know that _Monroe_ knows about the bracelets, knows what they can do?”

Theo hesitates a second longer, and then he takes a deep breath and steels himself—no going back now—and says, “Because she bribed me with the spell that makes them.”

The effect is near-instantaneous: Argent breathes out _you…_ , quietly but absolutely laced with fury as he realizes exactly what Theo’s saying—what he’s confessing—and then he surges to his feet and slams into Theo, driving him _hard_ back into the back wall of the motel room. The impact is enough to knock the wind out of Theo, his head cracking against the wall hard enough that his ears ring.

“You’ve been in contact with her this whole time,” Argent hisses at him, his hands wrapped tight and getting tighter in Theo’s collar, cutting into Theo’s windpipe, “You’ve been _spying—_ ”

“For you!” Theo shouts, interrupting him; he gets his hands up and shoves at Argent’s arms as he says it, ripping them away from his throat. It’s a useless effort since Argent just puts them right back, so Theo just clutches a hand in Argent’s shirt in turn, bracing a forearm against his chest to try and hold Argent away, “I’ve been spying _for you_. For _Scott_.”

Argent just continues to press against him, mouth twisted in a furious snarl and his eyes—even human as they are—practically _burning_ , “You expect me to believe that? I told you when all this started, you lie as often as you _breathe_ —”

“You know it’s true!” Theo spits out, voice gone high and a little desperate; they don’t have _time_ for this, he has to make Argent _see_ , “All those insights I had, all those realizations that helped you and Scott and Malia hone in on Monroe’s plans. Your father’s hideouts, the fact that Monroe was _looking_ for something, all those other hints and details. Maybe I didn’t tell you how I knew, but I _told you_ about all of it!”

Theo can see the slightest bit of uncertainty cross Argent’s face so he keeps going, keeps scrabbling at that crack, desperate to make it wider, to make Argent _believe_.

“She sent someone to me in Carson City,” Theo says, and chokes some when that revelation causes Argent to snarl and drive harder against Theo’s throat, the source of his fury clear; Carson City had been _months_ ago, “They knew about the bracelet.” Theo continues around the pressure, voice shredding some with the effort, “Her man said she’d give me the spell to get it off if I spied on Scott for her.”

“And you agreed,” Argent interprets angrily, pressing harder; pressing hard enough that Theo has to engage some of his supernatural strength to push him back, his forearm still braced on Argent’s chest, “You must have agreed, or you wouldn’t have been able to gain all your _insights_ over all this time.”

“Yeah, _yes_ , I agreed,” Theo rasps, his breathing beginning to wheeze as the prolonged pressure on his throat starts to cause black spots in his vision, “We’d been stumbling around in the dark for _weeks_ already, and I knew—” He has to stop, dig his head into the wall as he presses Argent back harder with his forearm, desperate to relieve the pressure, desperate for more air, “—I _knew_ I could do it, that I could get her idiot followers to tell me things they didn’t even realize they were telling me, figure out what Monroe was up to. And it _worked_. Argent, you _know_ it worked.”

Argent stares at him, his nostrils still flared angrily and his eyes still searching Theo’s face, but the pressure on his throat eases off, just slightly; just enough for Theo to suck in a deep breath. But Argent’s clearly not ready to believe _yet_.

“I figured it out in Chester, with the rogue alpha,” Theo hurries to tell him while he can, while Argent is giving him the opportunity, “One of her people had said something a few weeks earlier—” Argent’s hand spasms and Theo grits his teeth, jerks his head to try and move his neck away from the pressure, “—something that made it sound like Monroe was trying to figure out a way to turn the packs on each other. And then that rogue alpha got loose from Monroe, and he was wearing a bracelet, Alec told me.”

“But you didn’t bother to tell _us_ ,” Argent replies lowly, furiously, and immediately takes back all the room that he’d given Theo, his hands digging back into Theo’s throat.

“I thought—” Theo stops, shoves back against Argent’s chest so he can get a mouthful of air before Argent shoves right back forward again in turn, “I thought I had _time_ , I was supposed to meet her people two days from now, I wanted to confirm—”

He stutters to a stop, both because he’s only now fully realizing how badly Monroe had _played_ him, and because Argent’s hands are twisting his collar hard enough into his neck to be cutting off his blood flow. Grimacing, Theo brings his other hand forward and slams it against Argent’s shoulder, forcing him back; forcing his hands to loosen.

“It was still just a theory,” Theo pants out, “But this—this makes _too much sense_. Monroe isn’t just planning on turning the packs on each other, she’s planning on turning _Scott_ on them, and doing it using the bracelets. That’s why she took him, instead of killing him.”

Argent doesn’t let him go, but he doesn’t force his way back forward. Theo can see the gears whirring away behind his eyes, Argent’s mind _click-click-clicking_ the new information Theo is giving him into the mosaic he’d already had; Argent doesn’t _want_ to believe him, but he’s too smart _not_ to, not in the face of evidence.

“If this has been going on for months,” Argent finally says, voice low and full of threat, “Then you must have been feeding her information. And not just information, but _good_ information, or she would have ended the deal.” He looks at Theo hard, then suddenly shakes him with the hands still wrapped in his collar, pulling him forward and then back against the wall with enough force that the back of Theo’s skull cracks into it again as he demands, “What’d you give her?”

Theo immediately knows where his mind goes— _did you tell her where we were, where_ Scott _was_ —and he shakes his head best he can, says, “I didn’t tell her where to find us. I didn’t!” He insists when Argent moves to shake him again, “She’s had people _watching us_ from the beginning, Argent! You know she has!”

Argent doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t disagree, either. Instead his eyes narrow and he pulls Theo forward once more, jams him back against the wall as he snarls, “So what did you give her?”

“Coincidences!” Theo gasps out, locking out his arms to prevent Argent from shaking him again, “Coincidences and meaningless details, things that I knew meant nothing to you and Scott and Malia, but that Monroe could interpret as me helping her.”

“Theo,” Argent says warningly, unsatisfied with his vague explanation.

“Gerard’s hideouts,” Theo hurries to add, arms starting to burn with the strain of holding Argent at bay, “Monroe figured out that you’d realized she was going after them, I made her think you’d recognized the pattern yourself.”

A calculating look enters Argent’s eyes but his grip doesn’t slacken, not yet, “What else?”

“Yreka,” Theo tells him, “I told Scott to go to Yreka because Shohreh’s the most powerful and well-respected alpha in the western United States, but I knew Monroe was going to be in Roseburg.” Argent’s hands tighten in his collar so Theo quickly continues, “You and I had already agreed we couldn’t just keep chasing Monroe all over the goddamned country, remember? But to Monroe it looked like I had misdirected Scott.”

Theo waits, still braced back against the wall, his breaths still coming in short, shallow pants—the ridges of Argent’s knuckles biting into his windpipe with every inhale, every exhale—staring at Argent, desperate to see some flicker of belief in his eyes.

“You said she bribed you with the spell,” Argent says finally, “If she’d already _given it_ to you—”

Theo shakes his head, though he immediately regrets it when it increases the pressure on his throat, Theo choking briefly before he manages to interrupt, “She’s been giving it to me in pieces. That’s _why_ it took me so long to figure out what she was up to.”

Argent just stares at him, and Theo feels some of his composure start to crack—the reek of Malia’s blood in the air and the knowledge that Monroe _had Scott_ , that she could already be collaring him and preparing to turn him into some kind of fucked-up _weapon_ —eating at him.

“I’m telling you the truth,” Theo tells him, half-begging, “You know I am. Argent, _please_ —”

Argent’s hands tighten as Theo speaks, just briefly, and then all at once he releases him, steps back. Theo staggers, coughing, one hand flying to the wall to steady himself and the other to his throat, covering his still-burning skin where Argent had been driving his collar into his neck. When he finally manages to look up, Argent isn’t looking at him; he’s looking at Malia, still passed out on the ground.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Argent demands, turning back to Theo.

Theo grimaces, shoulders still heaving with his slowly-recovering breaths, “You wouldn’t have believed me.”

Argent scoffs, but he doesn’t disagree; he can’t, because Theo’s right, and they wouldn’t have. _Well_ , Theo thinks, chest twisting painfully: _Scott might have_. He shoves the thought away; now isn’t the time.

“Argent, I can find him,” Theo tells him, and immediately jerks backwards—slamming _himself_ back into the wall—when Argent’s head snaps to him, “I don’t know where Monroe is. But I know how to find out.”

“You know how to find out,” Argent repeats slowly, the underlying burr of _violence_ creeping back into his tone as Theo’s claim sinks in. And then, the more insidious corollary: that Theo _had known_ how to find Monroe for at least some stretch of time.

“It was too much of a risk before,” Theo hurries to defend himself, his hands coming up between them, palms out, Argent’s scent gone hot with fury in his nose, “I would have blown my cover, and we didn’t need it.” Argent’s expression spasms angrily and Theo quickly corrects, “I didn’t _think_ we needed it, not yet.” Then he grimaces as his eyes drift to Malia, who’d nearly _died_ , to Scott’s black-blooded handprints on the doorframe, “Clearly I misjudged something.”

Argent stands silently for a long few seconds, his shoulders heaving and his scent a roiling mess that mixes with the sickening reek of Malia’s formerly poisoned blood and _sears_ Theo’s throat. Fighting back the urge to say something, to demand that _Argent_ say something, Theo grits his teeth and stays panting up against the wall, waiting.

Finally Argent’s eyes snap to his, “How? How you can you find out?”

Theo nearly slumps with relief, “There’s a hunter,” He tells him, “Not one of Monroe’s inner-circle, but someone who desperately _wants_ to be. He’ll know where to find her, and _I_ know where to find _him_.”

Argent nods, his jaw working, “Fine. Let’s get Malia in the car and let’s go.”

But Theo just shakes his head, wincing, “You can’t come. I show up with you, he’s going to realize that I’ve been working for you and Scott and Malia all along. I’ve got to go alone, convince him that I’m there because Monroe screwed me out of our deal.”

Argent doesn’t respond immediately, but Theo can _hear_ his teeth grinding, “What do you need me to do, then?”

“Call the other packs, tell them what happened. Get them ready,” Theo answers immediately, “I’ll call you once I have the location.”

Argent stares at him, so clearly still furious, but underneath that, _terrified_. Whatever of Argent’s trust Theo had started to earn the last few months, he’d pretty thoroughly obliterated it with his revelation, but Argent _needs_ him; of the two of them, only Theo had any idea how to find Scott in enough time to actually have a shot at saving him, and that thought was clearly _eating_ at Argent. But there was a _reason_ that Argent had managed to survive all the shit he’d survived up to this point; ruthless practicality.

“Fine,” He says finally, ”Do it. Go.”

Theo doesn’t wait to be told a second time, just shoves off the wall and starts stumbling towards the door, his abused throat still aching and his lungs still burning. He’s at the door when Argent suddenly says his name; Theo turns to look at him and then can’t look away, the intensity in Argent’s eyes catching and holding him.

“If you’re lying about this hunter, if this is your way of running away…If you’ve _been_ lying...” Argent tells him, his voice not even a warning, but a promise, “I will use that bracelet. I will find you, and—”

But Theo cuts him off, looks him dead in the eye as he gives Argent a promise of his own.

“If this doesn’t work, and something happens to Scott, you won’t have to find me,” Theo tells him hoarsely, “I’ll come to you.”

Argent stares back at him, his mouth dropping slightly open, clearly taken aback. There’s something in his eyes as he narrows them thoughtfully a half-second later, but there’s no time; Theo lets his gaze drop down to Malia, her bloodied mouth and bloodied clothes, more than aware of Scott’s bloody handprints underneath his own fingers.

And then he turns away, and goes to hunt a hunter.

\---

The first thing Theo does when Michael Heidenrich unthinkingly opens his front door an hour later is say, “Hey, Michael,” sweetly, his fanged mouth curved in a savage smile.

The second thing he does—Heidenrich’s eyes widening comically, his mouth opening in a horrified _‘O’_ —is get both his hands on Heidenrich’s collar and drive him back into the house, kicking the door shut behind himself as he goes. Heidenrich scrabbles at his hands, trying to pull them off himself as Theo continues to force him backwards, but in the next instant Theo’s slammed him back against the opposite wall, crowded into his space. Ignoring the high, pained noise Heidenrich makes as his head cracks against the wall, Theo slides his right hand up and over Heidenrich’s neck, curls his fingers so that his claws dig into Heidenrich’s skin.

“Theo, jesus,” Heidenrich stutters out, his last syllable rising as Theo presses harder against his throat, “What are you…? _How_ are you…?”

“Oh, Michael,” Theo tells him pityingly, “I’ve known how to find you since our first fateful meeting in Carson City.”

“Wh-what? No, that’s not…That _can’t_ be—” Heidenrich gasps out, his eyes unable to settle, darting from Theo’s flared eyes to his fanged mouth and then lower, like he’s trying to look at his clawed hands.

“Michael, look at me,” Theo orders, Heidenrich’s eyes snapping back to his, “That’s not what’s important right now.”

Heidenrich’s expression spasms and Theo realizes he _knows_. Fury rising in his throat, he doesn’t even _have_ to summon a fierce growl; it rises on its own. Letting his mouth twist in a snarl, Theo watches in satisfaction as Heidenrich shrinks back as far as he can against the wall, clearly terrified.

“You _know_ ,” Theo hisses, and leans harder against him. It puts his teeth closer to Heidenrich’s throat and Heidenrich bites off a high, panicked noise, “You know that Monroe took Scott.”

“So what?” Heidenrich tries, obviously shooting for bravado but the crack in his voice ruining it, “What do you care? If Scott’s gone, you’re free.”

Anger—anger and _guilt_ —twist in Theo’s chest, but he doesn’t force them away, he _channels_ them as he pulls Heidenrich off the wall and slams him back into it, shaking him as he snarls, “Except I’m not free, am I?,” and then leans back with his right hand braced on Heidenrich’s chest so that he can hold up his left, Argent’s bracelet still wrapped around it, “ _Am I?_ ”

Heidenrich gulps as his eyes flick to it; Theo can see his throat bob, “You—you have the spell.”

“I have _pieces_ of the spell, Michael,” Theo reminds him lowly, leaning harder on Heidenrich’s chest, feeling the rapid rise-and-fall of it under his palm, “You know as well as I do that Monroe was deliberately stringing me out, and now I’m left with several _useless_ pieces of recycling, a tracking bracelet that I still can’t get off, and several pissed-off members of the McCall pack, one of whom is _Chris Argent_.”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” Heidenrich sneers, or tries to; his voice shakes.

Theo just smiles at him, flexes the fingers of his right hand so that Heidenrich can feel Theo’s claws digging into his chest in a pointed—in _five_ pointed—threats.

“It might have been. Except now I’m here making it _our_ problem,” Theo assures him, and watches in satisfaction as Heidenrich’s eyes widen and his previous attempt at a disdainful expression cracks and crumbles.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Heidenrich stammers, his scent tanking in Theo’s nose, “You can’t think— _I_ don’t have the spell.”

“No,” Theo agrees easily, “But you know where to find it.”

He sees _and_ feels the second the penny drops, Heidenrich’s expression spasming in alarm and his body jerking underneath Theo’s pinning hand.

“No. _No_ , I can’t,” Heidenrich protests, and makes a high, terrified noise when Theo deliberately snarls and leans harder on his chest, “I can’t! I don’t know where the rest of the spell is—”

“Stop playing dumb, Michael. I’m beginning to lose my patience,” Theo threatens, interrupting him, “You and I both know where the rest of the spell is. It’s with Monroe, because she’s going to use it on Scott.”

Heidenrich’s breath catches—Theo can feel it under his palm—and Theo thinks _bingo_.

“That’s right, Michael—I figured it out. So think about that, and about the fact that I was able to find you, and then think _very hard_ about whether or not you want to try and lie to me about not knowing where she is,” Theo warns him, flexes his clawed fingers for further emphasis and motivation.

“She-she never told me where she’s been hiding out!” Heidenrich blurts out, “She said it was for security’s sake, _compartmentalization_.”

He’s not lying—Theo would hear it if he was—but Theo can recognize a half-truth when he hears it; he practically speaks them himself as a second language, after all.

“Oh, I bet that’s what she told you,” Theo breathes, and then he smiles, slow and satisfied, as he prepares to tell Heidenrich a truth he’d figured out the first time they’d met, “Do you want to know the real reason?”

Heidenrich’s brow furrows, and Theo can see his curiosity and his suspicion warring with each other.

“What, you going to try and claim you know that, too?” Heidenrich sneers, but he’s interested in spite of himself, and Theo does knows _that_.

“She didn’t tell you, because she knew this day would come,” Theo tells him, savoring the revelation, “She knew that one day I’d try to use you like this, and she knew that one way or another I’d get her location out of you.”

Theo can see denial, disbelief, flicker across Heidenrich’s face. And underneath both of those things, he sees the barest beginnings of horror, as Heidenrich tests Theo’s claim against his own experience—against his own secret insecurities—and finds it too plausible, too perfectly-fitting, to completely discount.

“I knew it the first day we met,” Theo continues, twisting the knife, “I sat in that diner in Carson City and wondered why she sent such a fool like you to make her offer, and then I realized the only possible answer. You were a _sacrifice_ , Michael. She threw you to me like, well.” He stops, gives Heidenrich a molasses-slow, slick smile, “Like people used to throw sacrifices to wolves.” He smiles lazily with his sharp fangs—his _werewolf_ fangs—and then adds, “You were a dead man the second she sent you to meet me, and you’re the only one that’s never realized it.”

Heidenrich stares at him, his pulse pounding under Theo’s hand and his breathing coming pants.

“You’re wrong,” He denies, though Theo can hear the waver in his voice, and Heidenrich himself probably can, too, “She wouldn’t...You’re _wrong_!”

“No, I’m not. You know I’m not, Michael,” Theo counters, and then he adds, tone now gentle, soothing; cajoling, “And you know what the worst part is? I could see how _loyal_ you are, even from the first time we met. You’re a true believer, unlike that testosterone-soaked meathead Rossler, or any of her other psychopath followers who are just happy for an excuse to get their sadistic rocks off.”

Heidenrich makes a hurt sound, his expression spasming and some of the terror in his scent now replaced by hurt; by grief.

“That’s why you figured out where her hideout is, wasn’t it?” Theo murmurs coaxingly, “I bet you followed Rossler or one of the others back once, just in case. Just in case you saw your opportunity to _prove_ to Monroe just how valuable you could be.”

Heidenrich’s eyes flick to his and Theo knows he’s nailed it, smiles charmingly, deliberately releases the shift; his eyes fading back to human, his teeth once more blunt and his fingertips against Heidenrich’s chest losing their sharp edges.

“I don’t want to hurt her, Michael. Or stop her,” Theo tells him, voice still that same soothing, hypnotic murmur, “I just want what she promised me. Don’t you?”

“She’ll never—she’ll never forgive me if I take you,” Heidenrich says after a few long seconds, and Theo knows he’s won.

“She will, Michael. She _will_ ,” Theo disagrees gently, “She’ll understand. She knew this was a possibility after all, didn’t she? That’s why she took precautions. She’ll know that you did it under duress. And besides, think about it—she’ll have _Scott_. She’ll have a _true alpha_ under her control, ready to be unleashed on the other packs, finally able to begin her war in earnest. This little indiscretion? It won’t even _register_.”

Theo can see Heidenrich’s desire to believe all over his face, can smell it in the desperation that starts to tang his scent. _Almost there_ , Theo thinks: _just a little more_.

“C’mon, Michael. Think of it this way. You take me now, you’ll be there when Monroe achieves the goal that you’ve been helping her reach all this time. You’ll _be there_ at her moment of triumph. She won’t forget that, no matter the original reason for you being there. You’ve earned this, Michael. You’ve earned the right to be there, even if she never believed you were worthy of it.” Theo cajoles. And then, the final piece, “Prove her wrong. Take me to her, be there when she wins, and prove her wrong about you.”

And that’s it, Theo has him; Heidenrich’s chest stills and his scent levels out and his face loses its defeated, terrified expression, determination taking its place. But he still darts a look at Theo, eyes hard.

“You’re not going to hurt her?” He demands.

“I just want what she promised me,” Theo repeats, locking down his rage, his grief—his _guilt_ —and replies, “I just want my freedom.”

Heidenrich studies him for a long, few seconds—Theo having to swallow down an entirely inappropriate laugh; it’s like watching a child playact at being a knight—and then he nods.

“Okay,” He declares, “Then fine. I’ll take you.”

And Theo smiles, and nods, and takes his hand off Heidenrich’s chest.

\---

Monroe’s hideout turns out to be an abandoned office park off State Highway 33, the parking lot half-full of hulking black SUVs and the doors and windows suspiciously dark; dark like they’d been covered from the inside.

Theo stares at the building through the windshield of Heidenrich’s car, sat in the passenger seat and leaned forward over the dash, eyes running over every detail that he can see. Beside him in the driver’s seat, Heidenrich shifts uncomfortably and keeps darting confused, nervous glances at him, his scent a tense, anxious mess that stings Theo’s nose.

“What are we doing?” Heidenrich finally bursts out, “Why’d you make me stop over here?”

_Over here_ happened to be _another_ abandoned office park across the street and several blocks down, the _For Lease_ sign in the brown and crumbling yard sun-bleached and peeling. The second Heidenrich had turned onto the road leading to Monroe’s building and pointed, said _it’s there, that one_ , Theo had ordered him to pull into this lot instead, had flared his eyes and snarled with a fanged mouth when Heidenrich had tried to argue.

Now, Heidenrich’s outburst interrupting Theo’s concentration, Theo having stretched his senses out towards Monroe’s building, his ears straining to catch any activity, Theo blinks open his eyes and sits back. Mind racing, plans and strategies erecting themselves in his mind before crumbling back down as he rejects them, refines them, Theo works his jaw, considering, and then makes up his mind.

Smiling, he tips his head towards Heidenrich and says sweetly, “Thanks for the help, Michael.”

He can see the confusion—and suspicion—cross Heidenrich’s face, but he doesn’t react fast enough to stop Theo reaching over and slamming his head hard enough into the steering wheel to instantly knock him out. Leaving him where he is for the moment, Theo closes his eyes and reaches his senses back out towards Monroe’s building. It’s quiet—and Theo doesn’t hear any cars approaching from the highway, either—so he jerks open the passenger door and steps out, circles the car until he can yank open the driver’s seat, drag Heidenrich out of the car and to the ground.

Then he reaches down and pops the car’s trunk.

Heidenrich safely stored—bound with duct tape from his own backseat, the apparent Boy Scout—Theo pulls out his phone and calls Argent.

_An hour_ , Theo thinks as he hangs up—Argent and the closest of their allied packs were still at least an hour away. Theo had tried to shave as much time off as he could, had forced Heidenrich to give him the address the second they’d gotten in the car, but there had been no way around the fact that Heidenrich’s house was closer to Monroe’s hideout than the motel Scott, Argent, Malia, and Theo had been staying at in Fresno. Doing the calculations in his head, Theo had gritted his teeth and texted Argent the address, snapping at Heidenrich to watch the road when he’d glanced over and demanded _who are you talking to?_

Now, stood with his hands braced on Heidenrich’s trunk, an hour to wait for back-up, Theo stares at Monroe’s hideout across the way, his eyes narrowing and the shift rising impatiently under his skin. The front of the building is flat, open, no way to approach it without being spotted from inside, but the _back_... Theo double-checks the trunk to make sure it’s latched—wouldn’t want Heidenrich to rejoin the party before Theo is ready to let him—and then takes off for the forested area behind Monroe’s building.

The tree cover is heavy enough that he’s comfortable getting right up to the edge of it, flat on his belly and with his forehead pressed against his folded arms, his supernatural senses turned to the building. He ignores the sounds of the tromping, heavily-booted feet clustered in and around the various floors, some stationary, some not. He shoves past the reek of blood, and wolfsbane, and _death_ , and keeps looking, keeps searching. _C’mon, c’mon_ , he thinks impatiently, and then he has it: five heartbeats in a large room, and one of them is Scott’s.

_Still alive_ , Theo thinks with a huge, harsh exhale, and then he immediately sets the thought aside, focuses his senses in on the room. One of the heartbeats is Rossler—Theo recognizes both his usual scent _and_ that of his blood, wounded as Rossler had been in the attack on the motel—and a second is another hunter, Theo bets, the man’s scent heavy with wolfsbane and gunpowder. The fourth is Monroe—Theo can hear her talking, though he can’t quite make out the words—but the _fifth_ …

The fifth heartbeat reeks of herbs and the slightly electric tang that Theo has always associated with magic; the druid. _Son of a_ bitch _,_ Theo snarls mentally; he’d known Monroe would need a druid to put the bracelet on Scott, but he’d been hoping—been _praying_ —that the process would take longer. But apparently not; from the low, steady murmur and the sharp scent of magic that Theo can pick up, the druid had already started.

Gritting his teeth, Theo digs his forehead harder against his arm and focuses his hearing even more, desperate to hear some clue as to what exactly was happening in the room. It’s not a second too soon: the second he manages to strain his hearing enough to start picking up words, Monroe speaks.

“Exactly how much longer is this going to take?” She demands.

The druid—at least Theo thinks it’s the druid, it’s sure as hell not Rossler and Theo doesn’t know why Monroe would be asking the second hunter—makes a displeased noise and replies, “This isn’t baking a cake. Rushing the process is how your last pet slipped its leash.”

That apparently doesn’t sit well with Monroe, since she retorts, “My last pet _slipped its leash_ because you did the spell wrong. And if that happens _again—_ ”

“It won’t,” The druid interrupts her to say, disdain all but dripping from his words, “Now that you’ve actually gotten me the proper supplies.”

“I was assured the leather that I gave you was from a newborn, freshly slaughtered calf,” Monroe tells him, apparently from between gritted teeth.

“And yet, it wasn’t,” The druid replies coldly, “Now if you’ll stop interrupting me, the spell is almost complete.”

_What_ , Theo thinks, jolted back to himself: _almost complete?_ Panic twisting in his chest, he reaches for his phone to check the time, even though he _knows_ that Argent and the other packs are too far out to be of any use. _Goddamnit_ , he thinks, mind racing, and then he curses aloud and pushes himself to his feet.

There are two hunters standing just inside the building’s front doors as guards, but they’re easy enough to dispatch. Theo catches the first with a clawed swipe across his throat and the second with a clawed hand through his gut. The noise is enough to draw a third, but Theo hears him coming, manages to get to him before the hunter can bring his gun up and then rips it out of his hands before he can fire. Disarmed, the hunter’s eyes widen in panic and he opens his mouth to yell, so Theo clenches his jaw and strikes out, shreds the man’s throat before he can utter a sound.

The hunter falls and Theo stays still afterwards, listening. His brief scuffle with the hunters had been loud, but maybe not loud enough to draw attention from the other parts of the building; Theo can’t hear any running feet or shouting. Mind still racing and instincts screaming—this is by far the stupidest plan Theo has ever put into motion—Theo inhales a deep breath, then another, and then he takes off for the stairs, _the spell is almost complete_ ringing in his head.

He’d been right about Monroe being on the fourth floor, at least; the second he reaches the landing and presses himself back against the door, senses stretching out, he can hear her talking with Rossler down the hallway. There’s also another hunter, stood outside the doors leading into the conference room where Theo can hear Monroe, automatic rifle in hand. Pressing his head back against the wall, Theo glances out the stairwell door’s window and estimates the distance between it and the hunter, stood staring disinterestedly into space.

And then Theo moves.

Thirty seconds later and he comes crashing through the conference room doors, the now bloodied-and-dazed hunter held before him like a shield, Theo’s clawed right hand at his throat. Rossler’s and the other hunter’s rifles immediately come up and zero in on him, while behind them, Monroe pulls a pistol out of side holster and aims it between his eyes.

But it’s the druid who interests Theo. The druid and _Scott_ , who’s tied to a chair against the far wall of the room, his hair sweaty and matted and his skin an unhealthy, pale color, the marks of wolfsbane poisoning crawling up the side of his neck from the multiple bullet wounds marking his chest. Scott looks up at him, a strip of fabric tied over his mouth as a gag, his eyes clearly struggling to focus, and Theo stares back, horrified and nearly losing hold of his human-shield hunter from the force of it.

The druid is standing just off Scott’s left elbow, supplies spread across the room’s large conference table; the same supplies, from what Theo can tell, that Deaton had had spread across the exam room table the night that Argent had made him put a tracking bracelet on Theo. The druid eyes him curiously and then looks at Monroe, his hands holding a strip of leather.

“Theo. I should have expected this,” Monroe finally acknowledges in the tense silence that follows his dramatic entrance, her mouth twisting distastefully around his name.

“You really should have,” Theo agrees, and tightens his hand around the neck of the hunter he’s holding when the man groans and wobbles, concussed or worse from his brief struggle with Theo outside; Theo doesn’t have the time or free brain-power to dedicate to figuring out which.

“I assume I have Michael to thank for you finding me?” Monroe asks, her gun never wavering from between Theo’s eyes.

“Poor guy just wants to be part of the team, Monroe,” Theo tells her, falsely sympathetic, and grins when her mouth twists in annoyance. Then he lets the grin fall off his face as he adds, “And _I_ want what you promised me.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the way that Scott’s shoulders—even slowly heaving as they had been with his uneven, painful breaths—go rigid, his head steadying on his lolling neck and coming up to stare at Theo wordlessly. Swallowing down the surge of guilt that Scott’s stunned expression evokes, Theo refocuses on Monroe, who’s studying him thoughtfully. She watches him for a long few seconds more and then she holsters her gun, though Rossler’s and the other hunters stay exactly where they are; pointed at Theo’s chest on the other side of his human shield.

“And why would I give that to you?” Monroe inquires curiously, “You’ve got nothing more that I want, or need. Not when I’ve got our friend, here.”

As she says it she reaches over and runs a hand over the top of Scott’s skull, Scott jerking his head away as much as he can with a weak snarl. Theo fights back the urge to demand she keep her goddamn hands to herself and shifts the weight of the hunter in his arms as the man mumbles something and staggers.

Instead he pastes on a particularly derisive smile and says, “And why do you think you were _able_ to get ahold of _our friend_ there? You think it was a coincidence that Argent just happened to leave him and Malia alone?”

Monroe’s eyes narrow as she looks away from Scott and back at him, “You’re trying to tell me that you deliberately got Argent out of the way so that, what—my men could take Scott?”

“It’s what you were waiting for, wasn’t it?” Theo shoots back, mind frantically working to craft the details of the complete bullshit he’s spinning, “You couldn’t take on the four of us—well.” He stops himself, smiles lazily at her as he corrects, “The three of _them_ together, and Scott was never going to be _alone_ , but Scott and Malia would be doable. And look at that! It was.”

Monroe tips her head thoughtfully, clearly intrigued by his version of events, but Rossler isn’t buying it; he looks away from Theo—his gun staying steady—and says, “You’re not actually believing this horseshit, are you?”

Monroe gives him a sharp look, and Rossler quails back.

That done, she turns back to Theo and says, “If you deliberately got Argent out of the way for us, then you must have been expecting this. Why make such a scene, then?” She wonders, gesturing towards the hunter in Theo’s arms, bloodied and moaning quietly and probably dying, from the smell of him.

“Because I checked your adorable little flip phone,” Theo tells her, thinking fast, “And when I saw that I didn’t have any messages, I checked my truck. And when I saw that there weren’t any envelopes tucked under my wipers or hidden in my wheel-wells, I called my _landlord_. And what do you know—no envelopes in my mailbox, either.”

Theo holds her eyes, ignoring the way that Scott’s shoulders have started to heave again—with _anger_ , this time—and lets a vicious snarl curl his lips.

“I gave Scott to you on a silver _fucking_ platter, and you didn’t have the courtesy to leave me the rest of the spell to get this tacky piece of jewelry off,” Theo takes his left hand off the hunter to show the bracelet, then puts it back—catching the tipping hunter—as he continues, “Which means that the only _reasonable_ conclusion I could draw was that you’d broken our deal, and left me to be killed by the McCall pack once they figured out that I’d help you take their beloved alpha.”

The only sounds in the room after Theo’s done making his—completely bullshit, but completely plausible—accusation are Scott’s harsh breathing and the wounded hunter’s quiet groaning. Theo keeps staring straight at Monroe so he doesn’t have to look at Scott, whose stunned expression has slid right into betrayal, his scent burning like chemical smoke in Theo’s nose.

And then Monroe smiles, slickly and insincerely.

“You’re right, Theo. I did leave you in a bad spot,” She admits, voice full of false contrition, but Theo doesn’t give a shit about that. What he _does_ give a shit about is the way that Monroe reaches over and clasps Scott’s chin between the fingers of one hand, yanking his head up and smiling down at him as she adds, “Especially considering the fact that none of this would have been possible without you and the information you’ve been feeding me.”

Scott’s mouth opens in a fierce-looking snarl, but it’s useless, and all of them know it. Swallowing, Theo keeps his mouth shut as Monroe releases Scott’s chin and turns back to him.

“You’re here now, though, so let’s go ahead and correct that mistake,” Monroe tells him, “Put poor Eisner down and give Mr. Luvalle here a chance to finish his work with Scott, and then we’ll have him take your bracelet off.”

She starts to turn back to the druid—Luvalle, apparently—and Theo feels a spike of panic as Luvalle in turn refocuses on Scott. Gritting his teeth, Theo does the only thing he can think of; he continues to stall.

“I don’t think so,” He snaps, and breathes a mental sigh of relief when both Monroe and Luvalle freeze and look at him, “You think I’m an idiot? I let your pet druid anywhere near me, and you’re going to have him take control of my bracelet, too.”

Monroe’s lips twitch in a displeased frown and Theo knows he’d nailed it.

“I want the missing pieces of the spell, the ones you hadn’t given me yet,” Theo demands.

“You’re being very difficult, Theo,” Monroe admonishes, her tone starting to harden, “Which when combined with the fact that you’re horrifically outnumbered, makes me curious as to why you think you have the right to _demand_ anything.”

Theo just gives her his own slick, insincere smile back and answers, “Because you know how good of a fighter I am, and even with your two pet monkeys over there, the risk is too high that I can kill you all and _take_ what I want if you don’t give it to me willingly. _Especially—_ ” Theo adds, his eyes flicking to Luvalle, “—considering that the druid’s not going to risk his life for you.”

Luvalle’s lips flicker in a smirk; Monroe’s twist into a sneer.

“ _Fine_ ,” She hisses, apparently out of patience, “I’d already readied the rest of the pages in case your _assistance_ netted me something particularly useful. You can take them and go.”

As she speaks, she starts reaching for the set of supplies spread across the conference room table, where there is, indeed, a book with several white pages of printer paper tucked into the back of it. But as she moves for it, Luvalle next to her _also_ moves, and Theo realizes his critical mistake.

“No!” He shouts, and throws Eisner away from himself, _lunges_ for Monroe and Luvalle, desperate to intercept the latter as he wraps the strip of leather around the former’s wrist.

For a split-second—Rossler and the other guarding hunter shouting in alarm and firing off several bursts of gunfire that luckily miss Theo altogether—Theo thinks he’s succeeded.

And then he finds himself slammed facedown onto the conference table, his skull cracking against it hard enough to make spots dance across his vision, his back on _fire_ as something sharp— _five_ somethings—drive into the muscles on either side of his spine, holding him down. Theo chokes on a cry and tries to move away, only for another hand to smash down on the back of his neck, holding him still.

“Don’t kill him, Scott,” Monroe orders sharply, “There’s no need to throw away a perfectly good tool just because it’s a little mouthy.”

Monroe’s face appears in Theo’s vision then, Monroe apparently having bent over to look at him. She smiles at him—a _real_ smile this time—and reaches out to stroke a hand down the side of his grimacing face, Theo catching sight of the closed bracelet now adorning her wrist.

“So you drank the McCall pack kool-aid after all,” Monroe muses, “I did wonder, but you did an impressive job of playing the disgruntled conscript. But I guess that’s the risk one accepts when trying to run a double-agent: you can never quite be sure that they’re _your_ double-agent. Regardless,” Monroe concludes, straightening, “You’ll be mine soon enough, won’t you?”

Theo bites back a frustrated cry, his eyes squeezing shut and his teeth clenching, his thoughts starting to spiral; god, there was no way _out_.

Except that Luvalle suddenly warns, his voice strained, “The spell isn’t complete yet, Monroe—you keep putting that much strain on the bond, and with how much the alpha is fighting you, it’s going to break.”

Hope ignites like a flash-fire in Theo’s chest as Monroe snaps, “Then finish it. What are you waiting for?”

“I’m _try—_ ” Luvalle starts to say, but he cuts off with a startled cry when Theo—bracing himself for the absolute agony that’s sure to follow—suddenly shoves himself upward, Scott’s claws tearing out of his back and off his neck with the unexpected surge of force, Scott stumbling back.

Whirling around, his legs trembling and his shredded back shrieking, Theo zeros in on Luvalle; on the two strips of leather he’s braiding together, the strand nearly complete. Looking up instinctually, he catches Luvalle’s eyes, Luvalle staring back at him, clearly terrified. Mouth opening in a fierce snarl, Theo lunges for him, clawed hands outstretched for the leather braid.

Except Scott intercepts him before he can get ahold of Luvalle _or_ the braid, and throws him back. Theo lands with a choked, pained sound halfway across the room, the impact jarring his already wounded back, his muscles seizing and his vision tunneling. He’s still trying frantically to recover when Rossler and the other hunter suddenly appear over him, their guns pointed directly at him.

“Keep him there,” Monroe orders them in an infuriated snarl, “And _you—_ ” She hisses to Luvalle, “Get this _done_.”

Theo closes his eyes, his head falling back and his previous despair roaring back. He lets his arms—which had been bent at the elbow when he’d landed—fall flat, defeated. Except—except the fingers of his right hand brush something cold, and hard, and metallic, and Theo’s eyes snap open.

Rossler isn’t looking at him, his attention on Monroe and Scott, but the other hunter is, and he sees the instant Theo’s eyes go wide, starts to react. But he’s still _human_ , and Theo’s faster, even wounded; he gets ahold of the hunter’s gun and wrenches it away from him, throws it as he surges upwards, barreling into him. The move knocks Rossler off-balance, too, Rossler staggering back a few steps, and it leaves Theo a clear window to bring up the gun he’d retrieved from Eisner’s body.

He manages a single shot before Rossler recovers and shoots him twice in quick succession, the bullets slamming into Theo’s upper back, the gun falling from Theo’s suddenly slack hands and his knees giving out from underneath him at the sudden pain. The impact of hitting the ground jars through Theo’s hands and knees and he nearly collapses, just barely managing to keep himself on all-fours as he forces his eyes upwards, panting, looking to see if he’d made his shot.

Monroe is sneering at him when he finally manages it, “You missed, Theo.”

She’s got her mouth open, her hand coming up to gesture—probably about to order Rossler and the other hunter to retrieve Theo—when someone else speaks.

“No, he didn’t,” Scott says, and the force of Theo’s relief is enough to collapse his shaking arms.

He hits the ground hard, the wolfsbane in the bullets that Rossler had shot him with starting to spread, the five _deep_ puncture wounds that Scott had given him— _goddamn alpha wounds_ —searing like live flame. All he can see is the ground and his bloody left hand, Argent’s bracelet gleaming dully in the washed-out fluorescent lighting, but he can _hear_ it as Scott roars, as Rossler and the other hunter give panicked, half-defiant shouts and fire at him; as Monroe gasps out a choked, gurgling sound.

Theo’s starting to fade in and out by the time the cacophony stops, the only sound left Scott’s harsh, heavy breathing. Then, footsteps, and a heavy _thud_ next to Theo’s head, and finally hands on his shoulders, his arms, helping him turn over. Panting as he hits his back, Theo blinks slowly, unevenly, trying to get Scott to resolve into a single instance of himself, rather than triplets.

“I’m sorry,” Theo tells him helplessly as Scott finally comes into focus, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell anyone about the spying, I’m sorry I—”

“It’s okay,” Scott cuts him off, voice as gentle as his hands on Theo’s shoulders, “Hey, it’s okay. I think you made it up to us, yeah? You definitely made it up to _me_.”

Then his head snaps up, out towards the door; it’s then that Theo sees the spidering black veins crawling up his neck, remembers Scott’s own wolfsbane poisoning. But Scott just looks back down at him, expression pinched.

“We’ve got to go, there are more hunters coming. Can you stand? Can you walk?” Scott asks him.

“I don’t know,” Theo tells him honestly.

But he helps Scott sit him up, does his best to get his feet underneath him when Scott hauls him upwards. For the first few seconds he stays leaning heavily on Scott, hands clutching tightly around his arms for balance, the side of his face pressed against Scott’s shoulder. It’s in the process of standing there—panting and trying to steel himself for their coming escape—that Theo finally sees the rest of the room.

Luvalle is crumpled heavily where Theo had last seen him standing, a bullet hole marring his forehead. Rossler and the other hunter are sprawled crookedly across the ground nearby, their chests raw and bloody, their fingers still on the triggers of their guns.

But Theo barely notices them, his eyes catching and sticking on Monroe, bent back against the conference room table and with five deep, red clawmarks across her throat below her wide-open eyes, a gory hole punched through her chest; Scott had reached into her ribcage and shredded her heart.

“I, uh. I didn’t want to risk another Kate Argent,” Scott says as he realizes what Theo’s staring at, sounding _self-conscious_ , of all things, and Theo laughs, and then immediately groans.

“Hey, no complaints here,” He manages to rasp out, and pushes himself, wobbling, back onto his feet.

It doesn’t last. Scott catches him before he can fall again, gets his shoulders underneath Theo’s left arm, his hand coming up to grasp Theo’s left wrist to hold him on. He pauses when he feels the leather of Argent’s bracelet under his fingers, and Theo looks at him, finds Scott looking back; out of the corner of his eye he can see the bracelet Monroe had put around Scott’s own left wrist, their two bracelets nearly the same shade of dark in the dim lighting. Scott’s jaw works, and his fingers spasm around Theo’s wrist and waist.

And then Scott looks away and gets them moving for the doors.

\---

Forty minutes and two towns later, the two of them sitting sprawled with their backs to the side of Heidenrich’s car in a deserted warehouse parking lot, Scott tips his head to the side so he can look at Theo and asks, “How long?”

It’s not the first question he’d posed. That had been _is there...somebody in the trunk?_ , when Heidenrich had started making a muffled racket the second Scott had opened the passenger door of Heidenrich’s hidden car to dump Theo into the seat. Theo’s attention had been more on the chaos inside Monroe’s hideout—he could hear various voices yelling inside, including some ordering _get to the cars, go find them_ —but Theo had still stopped and blinked and said, _oh, yeah, that’s Michael_. Scott had stared at him, and Theo had stared back, and then Scott had snorted out a startled, helpless burst of laughter, and Theo had done the same.

It’d taken Scott the first twenty minutes of their escape to lose the handful of hunters that had finally come spilling out of the building after them, the paltry eight or nine of them scrambling into their SUVs; Theo had expected more, but Scott _had_ just decimated their entire leadership chain, so. Beside Scott in the passenger seat, Theo had spent that time getting screamed at, first by Argent—Theo’s phone on speaker and dropped into the cup holder between him and Scott—and then by Malia, who’d fully recovered from her own bout of wolfsbane poisoning, at least going by the volume of her furious shouting. Thirty seconds in Scott had opened his mouth, clearly about to interject on Theo’s behalf, but Theo had caught his eye and shaken his head; he could take it, and besides—the constant catch to their voices had been _relief_.

Hunters finally lost, Scott had pulled into the first deserted, out-of-the-way area he could find and parked the car, Theo looking up and then reading off the address of the warehouse to Argent and Malia. Argent had given them strict instructions to _wait there, and I goddamn mean_ wait _this time, Theo_ , and Scott had agreed. He’d also—voice a little uncertain, a little hesitant—asked Argent what the plan was for the rest of the hunters at Monroe’s hideout, to which Argent had told him _the Sacramento, Carson City, and Bakersfield packs will be there soon_ , and left it at that.

So that’d left Scott and Theo—and, well, Michael, who’d gone suspiciously silent and had probably been trying to saw through his duct tape bindings, if the strange sounds Theo had been able to hear coming from the trunk were any indication—sitting in a parking lot with time to kill before their rescue. Or, well. It’d left them sitting in a parking lot, both of them badly wounded, with time to kill before their rescue, and after sitting and staring sightlessly out of the windshield for a minute or so, Scott had groaned and reached into the back for Rossler’s gun—which he’d swiped from the floor of the conference room as they’d stumbled out—and its clip full of wolfsbane bullets.

Theo had completely ignored Scott’s chivalrous but ultimately misguided insistence on healing Theo’s injuries first, and had forced him to shut up and lean back so that Theo could get at the three bullet wounds on his chest. It’d been none too soon, either; hours old as they’d been, the spidering black tendrils of poison had been close to reaching Scott’s heart by the time Theo had burned the wolfsbane—using a lighter found in Heidenrich’s glove compartment, further proving Theo’s Boy Scout theory—out of him. Scott had roared and heaved and had eventually leaned over and spat out a mouthful of black blood—clearing his lungs, Theo had bet—but when he’d straightened, his skin had lost its sickly cast.

Healing Theo had been harder, as Theo had known it was going to be. The poisoned bullet wounds had been easy enough, Theo leaning forward over the top of the car and snarling wordlessly into his forearms as Scott dug the wolfsbane ashes into the two bullet holes on his back and then lit them, but there had been nothing either of them could do about the five puncture wounds from Scott’s claws.

“Theo, I’m—” Scott had started as he’d stared down at them, horror and guilt choking his words, and Theo hadn’t been able to take it, had cut him off.

“If you start apologizing, then I’m going to have to start apologizing, and we’re going to be here a long time,” Theo had interrupted him gruffly, “You weren’t in control.”

He’d still been able to practically feel the shame and regret radiating from Scott—he’d certainly been able smell it—but Scott had let it go. Or he’d let it go _after_ he’d tried to take Theo’s pain, and Theo had stopped him; Scott didn’t have the strength, and as painful as the punctures had been, they weren’t going to be fatal. Instead Theo had turned around against the car with a huff, and—lacking anything better to do, and just really damn tired—had slowly slid down to a sitting position. Scott had joined him, after a moment.

Now, virtually unmoved, Theo tips his head in turn to meet Scott’s eyes and answers Scott’s question, “I don’t know. How long ago were we in Carson City?”

Scott puffs out his cheeks and then lets the air slowly leak out, head falling back forward to stare sightlessly into the middle-distance as he apparently tries to calculate it, “God, I’m not sure. Feels like a million years ago.”

“Yeah it does,” Theo agrees, and shifts with a grimace, his back throbbing.

Scott looks over, his expression pinched, but he doesn’t say anything, apparently learning his lesson; Theo had rebuffed his last two efforts to get Theo to reconsider a pain-drain with decreasing amounts of patience. Theo can see him start to turn back forward when Scott’s eyes suddenly drop to Theo’s left wrist, and he starts to reach out, then hesitates. Exhaling out quietly, Theo raises his arm—with not a little effort—and holds it out to him, lets Scott carefully take hold of his forearm.

“So this has been a—a mind-control device the whole time,” Scott says, eyes on the bracelet wrapped around Theo’s wrist, his fingers hovering hesitantly over it, like he’s afraid to touch it.

_That Argent put on you_ , he doesn’t add, but Theo hears it in the loaded silence and sees it in the unhappy expression on Scott’s face; so he’d realized the truth after all.

“No, I don’t think so,” Theo disagrees quietly, and meets Scott’s startled eyes with a small smile when Scott’s gaze snaps to his, “At least, not yet.” He slowly takes his wrist back from Scott, brings it into his own lap as he runs the fingers of his right hand over the leather, studying it, “From what I saw that druid doing to you and Monroe, there’s significantly more to it if someone wants to use one of these to control a supernatural, rather than just—just track.”

Scott hums, though it’s just an acknowledgement, not an agreement or disagreement, “And that’s why—why Argent put one on you? To track you?”

“In case I ran,” Theo agrees, “He was concerned that I’d—take my knowledge about you and the others and sell it, or something.” He stops, head dropping low on his neck as he grimaces, turns his head to half-meet Scott’s eyes, “Which wasn’t—wasn’t an unreasonable worry, at the time.”

Theo can see Scott’s expression spasm, conflicted, his better sense warring with his possibly—probably—rosily-tinted hindsight, and eventually he just frowns and turns his head back forward, mutters, “He still should have told me. _You_ should have told me.”

“You wouldn’t have let him keep it,” Theo tells him gently, and quirks Scott a soft, understanding smile when Scott glances over at him; they both know he’s right.

But Theo’s statement just causes Scott to frown harder, “If that’s what you believed, why _didn’t_ you tell me?”

Theo looks away from him, lets his head fall back forward as he considers his reply.

“Because I didn’t believe it back then,” Theo confesses finally, meeting Scott’s eyes again; if he tries, he can still pull up a perfect memory of Argent saying _feel free to tell him if you think it’ll accomplish anything_ that night in the animal clinic.

It seems—silly, in hindsight; it seems indefensibly self-sabotaging. Theo grimaces, forces himself to let it go.

“Well,” Scott says after a few beats, “At least I finally know what Liam was talking about when he accused me of being unbelievably blind _and_ hopelessly naive.”

Theo squints at him, confused, “When did he say that?”

“Yesterday, maybe?” Scott replies, though he doesn’t sound all that confident, “It could have been this morning. It was after the fight the two of you had, anyway.”

Theo feels his chest clench painfully, the new ache having nothing to do with either his still-wounded back or his recently healed bullet-wounds, “He told you about that?”

Scott shakes his head, maybe sensing Theo’s sudden discomfort, “Not any of the details. He was just—really worried about you. Kept demanding that I talk to you, though he wouldn’t tell me why. The fact that I couldn’t seem to get a clue about what was bothering you was what finally made him say that, I think.”

“It wasn’t the bracelet that was bothering me,” Theo disagrees quietly, keeps his gaze forward even when Scott looks over at him, curious, “Even once I figured out what it truly was, it never occurred to me to worry that Argent might use this one against _me_.”

It’s not something that he’d really thought about before this moment, but he realizes it’s true. After Alec had given him the final piece of the puzzle to figure out what Monroe was up to, Theo’s worry had been figuring out who _Monroe_ was going to use the bracelets against. It’d never crossed his mind to be concerned that Argent could theoretically do the same to him. _Huh_ , Theo thinks, and glances down at the bracelet around his wrist.

“Then what was?” Scott asks, interrupting Theo’s musing. He blanches immediately after he’s said it, hurries to add, “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”

_Does_ Theo want to tell him? He tries to picture himself saying the things he’d said to Liam to Scott, here in this deserted parking lot, both of them dirty and exhausted and Theo at least still wounded, a duct-tape-bound hunter in the trunk. It’s an absolutely absurd tableau, but hell—it’s not like that’s all that unusual, for Theo.

“He wants me to stay,” Theo finally tells him, “That’s what we were fighting about. Liam wants me to forget the deal I made with you all that night and stay in Beacon Hills, instead.”

Scott frowns thoughtfully, “Do you...not want to?”

Argent had asked the same thing less than twelve hours ago, though it feels like approximately a decade. Theo sighs and murmurs and doesn’t have any better answer to give him, just murmurs, “I don’t think it’s that simple.”

But instead of leaving it at that, instead of waiting for Scott to ask _why not_ —Scott’s mouth already opening to no doubt do just that—Theo chews his lip for a long second, and then reaches his right hand back—his wounded spine protesting—and gets his hand in his pocket, takes hold of the photos there. He pulls them out slowly, a small corner of his mind shrieking on a repeating loop, asking if he really wants to do this. But Theo doesn’t stop, and eventually the last edges of the photos come loose of the fabric of his pocket, and Theo brings them around into his lap, looks down at them a moment.

Then he leans over and offers them to Scott.

“What are—oh,” Scott starts as takes them, then abruptly cuts himself off; Theo’s sister’s photo had been resting on top, and Scott must have recognized her. “Oh,” He murmurs again, more quietly, as he looks at one photo after the other. When he reaches the last one he pauses, studying it, then says before Theo can offer an identification, “Is this...Ailene and Anthony Storo?”

“Yeah,” Theo answers, just as quietly, then explains, “Shohreh gave it to me when we were in Yreka. She wanted to know why I was with you, why I was helping you.”

Scott looks over at him, the photos still in hand, “She didn’t think it was because of the bracelet?” He says it a little wryly, a little self-deprecatingly, apparently fully willing to accept that he’d been the only one not in on the joke.

Theo shakes his head, then leans it back against the cool metal of the car door, “She knew that you didn’t know about the bracelet, realized that couldn’t have been the reason I gave you.”

“You never—actually did give me a reason,” Scott points out, and there’s a genuine if reluctant sort of curiosity—Scott very much wanting to know but not sure if he should ask, if he has any right to the answer—in his voice, “That night at my house you just kind of—agreed, suddenly.” He looks back down at the photos in his hands; specifically, he looks at the photo of Theo’s sister, and the five thin claw-marks scratched across its surface, “I think I may have a better idea now, though.” He finishes quietly, and carefully stacks the photos back together, offers them back to Theo.

Theo takes them, brings them back into lap and stares down at them, runs a finger gently over the nearest of the scratches carved into his sister’s photo.

“I don’t know how to come back from the things that I’ve done,” He finally confesses to Scott, the effort of getting the words out past his tight throat shredding them, turning them hoarse, “I don’t know if there _is_ a way back.”

Scott’s silent for a long few moments, and then he asks, “But you want to? Find a way back, I mean.” He sees Theo look over at him and gives him a soft, somewhat wobbly smile, “That’s why you agreed to help originally, the reason you gave Shohreh. Isn’t it?”

Theo feels his expression spasm with—with something. Surprise or grief or the same clinging despair that’d been coating the inside of his ribcage since his fight with Liam; since he’d looked down at his sister’s face in the Sheriff’s file that first night, really.

But rather than answering Scott’s question, Theo just looks down at the photos in his lap, answers the unspoken question lingering beneath all of it, their whole conversation, instead, “You know, I asked Shohreh about the skinwalkers’ prisons. She knew about them already, you see. I asked her—I asked her if she thought that the experience of being in one changes a person. She told me no. But she did tell me she thought such a person could _choose_ to change.”

He looks over at Scott, knows that the tangled, conflicting mass of thoughts and fears and _hopes_ in his chest is all over his face, that even if it wasn’t, Scott could smell it, and just—doesn’t fight it.

“I want that, I want to try,” Theo finally answers Scott’s question; finally confesses that desire aloud, for the first time, “I do, but…it’s not just about me, is it? It’s about everyone _else_ , too. And I don’t know how to ask—how to ask you, or Corey, or Lydia, or Malia, or anyone, to try and give me the chance to figure out if I can change. I don’t know if I _can_ ask, if that’s—that’s fair to you, or them.”

Grimacing, he lets his head _thunk_ back against the car, adds:

“Hell, I don’t even know how to—how to give _myself_ the chance.”

He lets his head fall sideways so that he can look at Scott, who’s looking back, his expression equally raw. When their eyes catch Scott gives him another of those wobbly, sympathetic smiles, his gaze dropping from Theo’s face to the photos in his lap, then to the dark leather of the bracelet around Theo’s wrist. Finally he exhales heavily and turns his head back forward, stares out into the distance. A small, terrified corner of Theo’s brain starts to snarl, starts to scratch, uncomfortable in the silence, but Theo knows better, now—he’s underestimated Scott enough for a goddamn lifetime—and so he lets his own head fall back forward, waits in the steady quiet with him.

“I don’t know what the answer is,” Scott finally tells him, tipping his face towards Theo and meeting his eyes when Theo does the same. His lips quirk softly, though Theo can see the heavy weight of Theo’s history there in the corners of his eyes, “I don’t know if there _is_ an answer.”

He looks back out towards the wide stretch of empty, cracked asphalt before them, nothing but the sounds of traffic on the highway and the wind whistling quietly through the streets. Theo fights back the disappointed clench in his chest and looks down at the photos in his lap, swallows around the lump in his throat and the burn in his eyes.

Except that Scott suddenly says, “But...,” and Theo’s gaze snaps to his, his eyes wide, “But I’d like to help you figure it out, if I can.” He smiles gently at Theo’s shocked expression and adds, “If—if you want me to. If you’ll let me.”

Theo doesn’t know what the hell to say, just barely manages to stutter out, “Scott, I…,” before trailing off, speechless.

“Liam’s right, you should stay, Theo,” Scott continues quietly, “Forget the deal we all made that night, about you walking away. Or make a _new_ deal. But come back to Beacon Hills and stay. _Choose_ to stay.”

He grimaces then, adds:

“I can’t—I can’t promise anything about the others. I wouldn’t even if I could. But...but give them the chance to make their own decisions about it, about you, yeah? Give them the same chance to _choose_.”

Theo stares at him, and then realizes in a single, horrified instant that his burning eyes have spilled over. Jerking his head away from Scott, Theo covers his face with his hands—feels Argent’s bracelet catch on his skin as he does it—and scrubs at his eyes, his cheeks. Beside him Scott doesn’t say anything, just stays quiet, stays present; stays near. That makes it worse, somehow, Theo’s shoulders hunching further, his palms barely muffling the soft, wounded cries that keep escaping his mouth. Except—except it also makes it better, Scott’s steady heartbeat and steady scent and steady breathing like a touchstone in the middle of a storm.

“Okay,” Theo finally agrees, some indeterminate time later, his hands falling away from his face and his voice croaking, “I’ll—I’ll stay. I’ll try staying.”

He looks over at Scott, and Scott looks over at him, and then Scott smiles, wide and genuine and with crinkled eyes, and he reaches over, offers Theo a hand to shake; sealing the deal. Specifically he offers his _left_ hand, Monroe’s bracelet still wrapped around his wrist, and Theo bites his lip, then slowly reaches forward with his own left hand, Argent’s bracelet around his own wrist, and takes Scott’s hand.

Scott pumps their joined, braceleted hands once, and agrees, “Okay.”

\---

The first thing Argent does after he and Malia jerk to a screeching halt next to them—both of them spilling out of Argent’s SUV without bothering to close their doors—is yank Scott into a tight, bone-crushing hug that gets an admittedly comedic squeak out of him. He pulls back almost instantly after, hands on Scott’s arms and holding him still as he looks him over, and then—apparently satisfied—he claps him once on the shoulder and turns him over to Malia, who immediately surges forward hard enough into Scott to drive him back against Heidenrich’s car with _another_ comedic _oof_. Malia ends up swallowing that one, though, since she’d instantly crushed her mouth over Scott’s the second she’d gotten ahold of him.

As for Argent, the _second_ thing he does is turn to Theo and glare at him, snap, “What the hell were you thinking? I told you to _wait_.”

Theo’s about to open his mouth, either to defend himself or apologize—or defend himself _and_ apologize—but he doesn’t get the chance; Argent gets a hand on his arm and yanks him into a hug just as tight as the one he’d given Scott.

Scott’s _oh shit, wait, Chris_ , gets somewhat drowned out by the yelp Theo makes as the movement shifts his still-injured back muscles. Argent lets Theo go immediately with an alarmed look, and then Theo has to spend the next two minutes rehashing the exact argument he’d had with Scott earlier about being _fine, I’m fine, it’s fine_ , while Argent all but ignores him, instead making him turn around so that Argent can see the puncture wounds. Resigned, Theo gives up on arguing and just leans against the top of the car, waits for Argent to satisfy his latent mother-hen instincts.

Finally the pressure of Argent’s probing fingers disappears from his back, and Theo’s already turning back around when Argent comments, “You and the alpha wounds, huh,” wryly.

Theo feels his lips twitch in an amused grin, but it almost immediately disappears when Malia suddenly leans over and punches him—and punches him _hard_ —in the arm.

“Hey!” Theo protests, jerking and rubbing at the offending spot.

“That’s for lying to us all this time _and_ for nearly getting your stupid ass killed,” Malia tells him, bluntly and completely unapologetically, and Theo finds himself almost helplessly smiling at her, the impulse soft and immediate and unstoppable. Malia glares at him and then looks away, and then lets go of Scott to pull Theo into a brief—and gentle—hug, all in quick succession.

She goes back to glaring at him immediately after she lets him go, though.

“Alright, we should get going. The others are waiting,” Argent says after she’s done, and Theo vows never to acknowledge how soft or open Argent’s voice, his face are; he thinks both are probably those types of things that can only exist if everyone mutually and silently agrees never to admit that they saw them.

“Get going where? And who’s waiting?” Scott asks curiously, his hands coming up automatically as Malia steps back into his arms, leans against him.

“Junichiro—” Alpha of the Bakersfield pack, “—offered up his house as a home-base of sorts,” Argent answers. Then he takes a deep breath—a curiously deep breath, Theo’s brow furrowing as he watches Argent do it—and his eyes flick, almost too fast to catch, to Scott’s wrist, to Theo’s; to their bracelets, “He also has his emissary standing by to get those off of you.” He pauses, looks Theo dead in the eye, “Off _both_ of you.”

Theo feels his breath catch, and can’t do anything other than nod, once, after a stunned few seconds. Argent holds his eyes for a moment longer and then gives Theo his own, jerky nod, looks away. Then he frowns at whatever he sees, and Theo looks over his own shoulder, realizes that Argent is looking at Heidenrich’s car.

And then he and Scott both instantly exclaim, “Oh, shit,” as they apparently simultaneously remember Heidenrich in the trunk.

Heidenrich starts muffledly swearing the second Theo opens the trunk, but the second he catches sight of Argent, Scott, and Malia behind him, he immediately goes silent, eyes wide over his duct-taped mouth. Theo hears Argent give a long-suffering sigh, and then he quickly hops aside when Argent reaches down to haul Heidenrich up and out of the trunk.

Argent ends up sticking Heidenrich in the front seat of his SUV—still bound at the arms, but the tape taken off his mouth, not that Heidenrich so much as makes a peep—and directs Theo into the backseat, where ten seconds into trying to behave like an adult and sit up, Theo gives up with a groan and tips over onto his stomach, his back throbbing. Scott and Malia take Heidenrich’s car and follow Argent back to Junichiro’s, Malia driving and very pointedly never getting more than a few feet from Argent’s back bumper.

Even given the fact that Junichiro lives in a sprawling ranch-house sitting on several hundred acres of farmland, the gravel area in front of the house is still packed with cars when Argent pulls in, Malia squeezing in next to him. Theo—sitting up with a groan—recognizes a handful of the Yreka pack’s vehicles, including McPherson’s Siskiyou County Sheriff’s Department cruiser, as well as Nina Glaeser’s sensible black crossover and Jyoti’s less sensible but much sleeker Mustang.

“How’d they all get here so fast?” Theo wonders blankly, voice rough with sleep; he’d passed out almost the instant Argent had started driving.

“Most of them headed this way immediately after I called them, after you and I discovered Scott was gone and you went to go find your hunter,” Argent explains, and gives Heidenrich a long, side-eyed look that causes Heidenrich to attempt to shrink even further into himself.

“Ah,” Theo says, and slides over to open the door and step out.

Luckily Argent seems to have more sense than Theo does; he’s there and manages to catch Theo by the arm when Theo’s trembling legs nearly give out as his feet hit the ground. Giving Theo a dry, unimpressed look, Argent gets him leaned up against the SUV and orders him to stay put, then circles around the hood to retrieve Heidenrich from the front seat.

Malia and Scott wander over while Theo is deciding whether he wants to make a point of defying Argent’s order or not. Scott just grins at him and leans heavily against the SUV next to him with a heartfelt sigh of relief, but Malia frowns, her eyes narrowed as she studies him. Then she rolls her eyes and darts a hand out, gets ahold of Theo’s left wrist and immediately starts siphoning his pain.

This time _Scott_ has to catch him as his knees wobble and then collapse, Scott yelping, “Woah,” and just barely getting his arms underneath Theo’s to haul him back to his feet.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the effort or the sentiment—” Argent tells Malia as he comes back over, Heidenrich pushed before him with Argent’s hand in the back of his collar, “—but maybe wait until we get inside and he’s sitting?”

That doesn’t really work out as planned, though.

For one thing, the second they get inside—Theo’s arm over Malia’s shoulders, no matter how strongly he’d insisted that he was fine to walk, _just like Scott_ —they’re greeted by a confusing mass of Bakersfield, Yreka, Carson City, Sacramento, and Lakeview pack members; they’d heard them coming, clearly. Heidenrich gets hauled away by McPherson and Scott and Malia start explaining the attack on the motel to Junichiro and Marcus, but Theo gives up on trying to follow the conversation— _any_ of the conversations, since about twelve start up and all continue over each other—and just lets his head loll against Malia’s shoulder, waits to be directed somewhere where he can hopefully, as Argent suggested, _sit down_.

That ends up being a large and spacious living room, Theo passed off from Malia to Nina, who uses the hand she gets around Theo’s wrist to start siphoning his pain as she starts walking him over. She barely slows when Theo gives a choked gasp and stumbles, just resettles his weight like it’s practically nothing and keeps moving. By the time they reach one of the room’s massive couches, someone has spread a thick blanket over the cushions, and Nina gets him lowered down onto his stomach, his wounded back exposed.

She must notice his heavy eyelids because she flicks him gently on the forehead and says, “Food first, then you can sleep. Your body needs the fuel if it’s going to heal those puncture wounds.”

Sprawled back against one of the other couches across from him, Malia sitting next to him, their hands clasped, Scott flinches bodily. Theo gives him as forceful of a glare as he can from his prone position and Scott grimaces, then grins, then grimaces again; his injuries may have healed, but he’d still taken a lot of abuse.

Junichiro—wise man that he is—had apparently sent several of the werewolves milling around into town to clear out several of the restaurants of their catering, and Nathaniel—Nina getting called out to deal with some development on the Monroe clean-up front—brings Theo a plateful of butter chicken and some rice, sits chatting with him and Scott and Malia, also ravenously eating, their systems needing the fuel just as much as Theo’s, until Theo manages to clear his plate. After that Nathaniel lets him collapse back onto his stomach, puts a hand directly over the marks on his back and siphons his pain until it’s gone, until Theo falls asleep under the warmth and weight of it.

When he wakes up a few hours later, it’s because Argent has sat next to him and shaken him gently awake. Blinking, Theo peers up at him and then glances around the room, notices that besides him and Argent, Scott and Malia—both fast asleep on the other couch—are the only ones in it. Then his gaze catches on Scott’s left wrist—his _bare_ left wrist—and he jerks, starts to press himself instinctively upwards.

“Easy,” Argent admonishes gently, but helps him sit up all the same. Then he looks him carefully in the eye and asks, “Ready?”

The whole process is more anticlimactic than Theo would have expected.

Junichiro’s emissary Nami is waiting in the ranch-house’s massive kitchen when Argent leads him there, and where Theo would have expected another collection of supplies, like Deaton and Luvalle had used, Nami only has a single tool and a bowl full of some herbal paste beside her elbow. Still, Theo finds his steps faltering when he sees them, jerks a startled look at Argent when Argent puts a gentle hand on his shoulder and encourages him forward. Swallowing, Theo looks away from him and gets himself moving again, goes to join her across the kitchen’s island, the tableau so very similar to when Theo had stood across from Deaton at the animal clinic all those months ago.

Theo’s back is still throbbing and the photos in his pocket—replaced carefully before Argent and Malia had shown—are pricking at his skin through his shirt, and Theo has to concentrate to ignore both sensations as he wraps the fingers of his right hand around his left wrist, covering the bracelet. In the doorway Argent is watching him, but where last time his face had been hard, suspicious, his hand hovering always near the butt of his gun, this time it’s patient, encouraging; Theo takes a deep breath and meets Nami’s eyes.

“What do I need to do?” He asks her.

And where Deaton had flashed him a knowing look when Theo had asked him that same question, Nami just smiles, even as she says, “Hold out your wrist, please,” just like Deaton had.

In the end all it takes is Nami spreading the herbal paste over the length of the bracelet, and then carefully tracing each of the runes through the resulting layer of goop, and as she finishes the last stroke of the last rune, the bracelet falls open.

Theo isn’t sure what he expected; a surge of relief, maybe. A sudden burst of triumph. Mostly what he feels as he takes his wrist back, rubs at the revealed bare skin, is—quiet. His thoughts, his heartbeat, the tangled mess of emotions in his chest all seem muted, faraway, and he finds himself looking down, eyes dropping to the innocuous strip of leather now laying innocently on the island in front of him; he nearly reaches for it before he stops himself.

He really doesn’t remember Nami, or Argent, or anyone really, until Nami moves to start cleaning up her supplies, and then he jerks, blurts out a belated, “Thank you,” as he meets her eyes.

“Of course,” She accepts, smiling slightly, and then—either because she’d already been planning to leave or because she senses the atmosphere in the room—she gathers up her things, gives Theo one last acknowledging nod, and leaves him and Argent alone in the kitchen.

Theo doesn’t realize that she’d left the bracelet behind until he looks back down from where he’d watched her leave and sees it sitting on the island in front of him.

“You slept through Scott informing me exactly how he felt about me putting that on you,” Argent tells him as he comes to join Theo at the island; there isn’t exactly _humor_ in his voice, but there’s something, and whatever it is, Argent’s clearly trying to share it.

Theo huffs a quiet, equally not-humorous-but-something laugh, “Yeah, he, uh. He wasn’t too thrilled that I didn’t tell him about it, either.” Then he bites his lip, mulling over his next question, and finally asks, “I was right, though, wasn’t I? When I told him that you didn’t make Deaton complete enough of the spell to actually be able to control me, that all you could do was track.”

“Don’t give me too much credit,” Argent replies, and that _something_ is back, and morphing into something harder, “It wasn’t for lack of trying. Deaton just flat-out refused.”

Theo winces, realizes he’s still holding his bare wrist when his fingers tighten, and releases it. He’s not sure what to do say to Argent’s admission, but luckily he doesn’t have to think of anything; Argent speaks again.

“I’m not sorry I did it, Theo,” Argent tells him, and meets his eyes evenly when Theo glances over at him, “It was the right call at the time, and if I had to go back, under those circumstances and given what I knew about you then, I’d do it again. But,” He continues, before Theo’s hunching shoulders can hunch too far, “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t do it _now_ , for whatever that’s worth.”

Theo stares at him in surprise, knows that his shock is all over his face and just—can’t do anything about it. Argent gives him a small, self-aware smile and then looks away, reaches forward and takes hold of the bracelet.

“I’m going to burn this,” He informs Theo, and it’d almost sound like Argent is giving him a chance to protest if Theo didn’t know him like he does; even if Theo tried to say _no_ and refuse for whatever reason, Argent would _still_ burn it.

“Okay,” Theo agrees, a little blankly; their whole conversation too full of whiplashed turns in tone and substance for Theo to have fully digested it yet.

Argent gives him another flicker of a smile and then starts heading for the entryway back into the living room. He’s most of the way there when Theo calls his name, and Argent turns back.

“It’s worth something,” Theo tells him after a few long, slightly strained seconds, “For—for whatever that’s worth to you.”

It’s almost a shock to see shock on Argent’s face, but there it is. He stares at Theo and Theo stares back, a little shocked at _himself_ , and then Argent’s expression clears and he nods slowly, smiles. When he turns around again, Theo’s fully prepared to let him go, except that his ears catch something—his senses much improved, between the food and the sleep—and he frowns, calls Argent’s name once more.

Argent turns back around with exaggerated patience, “Yes, Theo?”

But Theo just squints at him, “Did you—tell Ms. McCall we were here?”

He doesn’t mean it like it sounds—like Argent had maybe just decided against telling Scott’s mother—and his own partner—that her son had been kidnapped and nearly turned into a mindless weapon—he just means, did Argent literally tell her they were _here_ , in Bakersfield. Because it sure as hell _sounds_ like her asthmatic sedan is rumbling down the road towards the house, and now that he’s listening for it, he’s pretty sure he can pick up the Sheriff’s cruiser, too.

“Gave her and the others the address as soon as I got off the phone with you and Scott earlier today,” Argent answers simply, then grins, a little slyly, “I guess they must have stopped for gas.”

Theo stares at for a moment and then rolls his eyes, scoffs. But he follows Argent back towards the front door of the house, Scott and Malia appearing from the living room almost simultaneously, and so he’s there when Ms. McCall bursts inside, immediately beelines it for her son and gets him wrapped up in another of those bone-crunching, squeak-causing hugs.

She squeezes him again—and Scott squeaks again—and then turns to Malia, hugs her equally tight. Theo’s expecting her to go for Argent next, his attention on trying to figure out the rest of the incoming party—he can hear Derek’s Toyota, definitely, and maybe Mason’s near-silent hybrid sedan—and so he startles when Ms. McCall suddenly reaches for _him_.

Except Scott blurts out, “Wait, mom! Don’t hug him!”

Ms. McCall freezes, her arms already half around Theo’s shoulders. She looks up at Theo briefly, and then looks over at her son, clearly baffled.

“Why?” She finally demands, her arms still hovering awkwardly in the air.

“Oh, I didn’t mean—” Scott says, apparently realizing how that must have sounded, “He’s just hurt. His back.”

Ms. McCall blanches some and goes to step away from him, and Theo finds himself saying, “It’s not as bad as he’s making it sound,” gently, smiling shakily at her when she looks back at him, “Just—maybe not hard enough to get that squeaking noise.”

Ms. McCall stares at him for a moment and then gives a wet-sounding laugh, gets her hands back on his shoulders and reels him in, carefully. Theo—after a moment of hesitant indecision; he’s _never_ hugged Ms. McCall before—slowly brings his arms up, and hugs her just as carefully back.

“Thank you for saving my son,” She whispers, her chin tucked over his shoulder, and Theo closes his eyes, his grip tightening some involuntarily.

“You’re—you’re welcome,” He tells her finally, just as quietly.

She steps back from him for real then, and _does_ go for Argent, and Theo’s smiling helplessly at them, and at Scott and Malia, and kind of at—at just _everything_ , and then the rest of the McCall pack comes spilling through the doors, and the members of the other packs who hadn’t gone to deal with the mess at Monroe’s hideout appear to check out all the fuss, and the whole thing just descends into chaos. Theo spends the next few minutes in a dizzying confusion of arms and shouted questions, various people trying to hug him and getting warned off first by Scott, and then by Ms. McCall, and then by Malia, who finally gives up and hollers _no one hug Theo, alright, he’s injured_.

It’s enough of a mess that it takes him a few minutes to realize that Liam isn’t there, and the bottom drops out of his stomach, immediately and without conscious thought. He’s about to ask Mason, stood nearby with Corey, both of them staring up at Nathaniel—who is, admittedly, a strapping example of devilishly good werewolf looks—when the door bursts open for the fourth or fifth time in the last five minutes, and Liam stumbles in.

“Sorry, sorry, I got caught at that _stupid_ light,” He’s already saying as he comes in, glaring at Derek—and sort of incidentally at Alec, who’s standing close enough to Derek to practically be within the same eyeline—and adding, “Which you _definitely ran_.”

Theo hears the Sheriff mutter _I didn’t hear that_ , sees him trade an eye-roll with McPherson, who presumably also didn’t hear that, and then all other thoughts go flying out of his head when Liam spots him, their eyes catching. Liam’s mouth opens and closes a few times, like he’d maybe been thinking of shouting something across the room at Theo instead of coming over to tell it to him like a _normal person_ , and then he suddenly hurries forward, dodging through McCall and other pack members alike.

“Theo, look, I’m sorry about—” He starts to say as he gets closer, except that the second he gets within arm’s reach, Theo grabs him, and pulls him in, and kisses him.

It hadn’t really been his intention to kiss Liam but the second he saw him come through the door it’d been this overwhelming impulse, and he hadn’t been able to resist it. Hadn’t wanted to then, and doesn’t want to now. Instead he tightens his hands around Liam’s head and kisses him harder, pulls him in closer when Liam makes a startled noise and stumbles against him.

He starts to pull back after a few seconds—something about the quality of the sudden silence tells him they have an audience—but Liam doesn’t cooperate. Instead he gets his own hands around Theo’s face and yanks him back in, and this time when their mouths touch he opens his own, licks into Theo’s when Theo’s lips drop open in surprise.

“You—you massive prick,” Liam pants when he finally pulls back, and there is no amount of money in the world that someone could pay Theo to accurately guess how much time just passed, “You can’t just—just get into a massive fight with someone and then ignore them for two days and then nearly _die_ , and think kissing is going to fix everything.”

“I didn’t think kissing was going to fix everything,” Theo responds automatically, and means it, no matter how skeptical Liam might look.

“Okay, but based on the quality of that kiss, I’m thinking it fixed at least _some_ things,” Mason suddenly comments, and then yelps when Corey elbows him sharply.

Theo jerks and colors at the reminder of the rest of their curious audience, Liam doing the same. He realizes that they’re standing close enough to almost be hip to hip, and he grimaces, takes a half step back. He—doesn’t let go of Liam, though.

“You know,” Junichiro offers into the resulting awkward silence, “I bet you all are starving, given the drive. We have food left over, if you’d like to follow me?”

Ms. McCall is clearly trying not laugh and the Sheriff couldn’t look more longsuffering if he _tried_ , but they and the rest of the McCall pack, along with the mixed-bag of other pack members who’d also crammed into the entryway, follow Junichiro towards the kitchen and dining rooms. Theo stays exactly where is, his flush resurging every time someone passes him with a grin or a congratulatory clap on the shoulder, and just keeps holding onto Liam, who doesn’t move, either.

But the second everyone’s gone, Theo beats Liam to opening his mouth first, tells him, “I’m sorry. About the fight and ignoring you. I just didn’t know how to...” He trails off when he sees the shrewd look Liam is giving him, “What?”

“Are you...not sorry about the nearly dying thing, then?” Liam asks pointedly.

“Well, I’m not sorry about saving Scott from being turned into Monroe’s _mind-controlled attack dog—_ ” Theo starts to say, a little indignant, except that Liam grins and cuts him off by kissing him again, which, okay; it _is_ a pretty effective way to end someone else’s sentence.

They lose another few minutes to that, and then Theo’s back hits the wall from where Liam had been slowly and steadily walking him backwards, and Theo’s eyes snap open and he bites back a yelp. Liam startles backwards immediately, eyes wide, and Theo just manages to grab ahold of his sleeves to keep him from going too far.

“Sorry, sorry,” Theo pants out, eyes squeezed shut, his still-injured back throbbing from the impact.

He opens his eyes after a few seconds and refocuses on Liam, who’s watching him, his expression blown open and clearly worried. Exhaling out slowly, Theo leans forward until he can press a single, closed-mouth kiss to Liam’s lips, and then he—without prompting—turns so that he can lift up the back of his shirt, show Liam the lingering puncture wounds from Scott’s claws. Liam sucks in a breath, and Theo jumps slightly in the next instant when he feels Liam’s fingers hovering, feather-light, over the marks.

“You, uh. You and the alpha wounds, huh,” Liam finally chokes out, and Theo huffs out a laugh, remembering Argent commenting the same thing earlier, and lets his shirt fall back down, turns back to face Liam.

Liam’s smile is a little strained when he finally turns back far enough to see it, but his scent is leveling out, so Theo just reaches out, planning to pull him back in for another soft kiss. Except that Liam catches sight of something and frowns, darts his hands out and takes ahold of—of Theo’s bare left wrist.

“It’s gone,” He says blankly, and looks back up at Theo, his surprise all over his face.

“Argent had Junichiro’s emissary take it off,” Theo tells him quietly, and shivers a little at the feeling of Liam’s fingers running carefully over his skin; Liam’s eyes sharpen when he notices, but he doesn’t lean back in to kiss Theo like Theo might have expected.

“So does that mean…” He starts to ask, then trails off, starts again, “You upheld your end of the deal, you’re free. Free to leave.”

There’s a catch to his voice, a hesitation that Theo absolutely _hates_ , and he winces, remembering—remembering _everything_ that he’d yelled at Liam a few days ago, _of course I’m leaving_ and worse. But he forces himself to take a deep breath, to think of Scott, sprawled out next to Theo in that deserted warehouse parking lot and saying _I don’t know that there is an answer_ and _choose to stay_.

And so he gently takes his wrist back from Liam, brings his other one up so that he can carefully clasp Liam’s face between his hands, lean his forehead against Liam’s own.

“I’m not going anywhere,” He tells him quietly, and meets Liam’s eyes when Liam jerks and pulls back some and stares at him, wide-eyed. He just holds Liam’s gaze and says, “I want to stay. I’m going to stay,” and feels his own helpless smile bloom on his face as an identical one blooms on Liam’s.

He kisses Liam again, then, and keeps kissing him for a long time, Liam’s hands coming up to bury themselves in Theo’s hair and hold him just as close.

And then he pulls back, and presses his forehead once more to Liam’s, and tells him, “I want to go home, Liam,” asks him, “Come home with me.”

And Liam leans back and looks at him, his eyes searching Theo’s face, and then he smiles, wide and with crinkled eyes, and says, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

\---

Of course, that ends up being—not as straightforward as it sounds.

For one thing, _home_ is almost six and a half hours away, and for another, Liam and most of the rest of the McCall pack just spent six and a half hours driving _away_ from it. Not to mention that it’s late, by the time that Theo and Liam manage to pull themselves away from each other and rejoin the commingled packs spread out throughout the living and dining rooms; Theo considers it a small miracle that they only get one wolf-whistle as they walk in, Nina slapping Nathaniel upside the head immediately after he does it. They _do_ get no small amount of cheeky grins, and Mason attempts to give Liam an entirely _un_ covert covert thumbs-up, but overall it’s a relatively benign reception.

Laughing under his breath and pointedly ignoring it all, Theo goes to claim a seat next to Scott and Malia on one of the couches, the two of them mostly asleep curled up on one end, leaving just enough room for Theo and Liam to squeeze into the other. He’s halfway there when Liam snags his arm and yanks him to a stop, hisses _depleted battery_ at him and jerks his chin towards the kitchen in a clear order. Theo stares at him, eyebrows raised—under no circumstances does he plan to let Liam labor under the impression that Theo’s suddenly become amenable to following his ridiculous orders—except that underneath Liam’s haughty glare, there’s a hot, bitter undercurrent of not-quite-extinguished _fear_. Expression softening, Theo lets Liam tug him into the kitchen.

He and Liam end up on an air mattress in Junichiro’s living room shortly afterwards, the various packs breaking up for the night. Entirely without discussion, Junichiro’s guest bedrooms and collection of air mattresses—apparently a universal pack staple—get turned over to the McCall pack, while the other out-of-town pack members follow various of Junichiro’s betas back to their respective houses to crash with them. Strangely enough, Liam passes out before Theo does, his hand still tucked up under the very edge of Theo’s shirt to gently touch the skin of his back, his ribs, Liam steadily siphoning his pain until he finally falls asleep. Theo studies him in the dim light for a long time before finally closing his own eyes.

The next morning is only slightly less chaotic than the preceding night, Junichiro once again raiding the various restaurants in town, this time for breakfast foods. Theo spends the time sat next to Liam at the kitchen table, talking with Scott, Argent, and the rest of the McCall pack, as well as the various alphas of the assembled packs—with more arriving as the morning wears on—hashing out the final details of what to do with Monroe’s hideout, her remaining followers; her body. Agent McCall gets looped in via Argent’s speakerphone as Theo is getting his first cup of coffee, and by the time Theo has finished his third and is idly considering a fourth, Agent McCall, the Sheriff, McPherson, and handful of the other law enforcement representatives have settled on a course of action.

It’s at that point that Shohreh—who’d been holding court at the head of the island in the kitchen—smiles at Scott and gets his face between her hands, gently kisses his forehead as she orders, “Go home, Scott. You’ve done your part, and now we must do ours. Get some rest.”

Scott looks up at her, clearly about to protest, and then he glances around at the rest of his pack scattered throughout the kitchen, the living room through the open entryway. Theo can see it in his eyes, the same sort of weary _exhaustion_ that he can feel in his own bones—the desire to go _home_ , just like Theo had said to Liam last night—and he smiles when Scott’s drifting gaze catches his own, nods once.

Scott’s eyes crinkle after a moment, and he turns back to Shohreh, murmurs, “Yeah. Yes. Thank you, ma’am.”

And so the McCall pack prepares to head out, passengers negotiated among the various cars and advice given on what roads to avoid based on the drive down. Theo belatedly realizes that his truck is still parked in Heidenrich’s driveway and swears, and Liam rolls his eyes and conscripts Mason to ride with him and Theo, asks Corey to drive Mason’s car back. Huffing, Theo tries to claim that he’s fine to drive—which he _is_ —but Liam won’t hear it, just talks over him and thanks Mason for agreeing to drive Liam’s SUV from Heidenrich’s house back to Beacon Hills so that Liam can drive Theo and his truck, in order to—as he loudly states—make sure that _Theo doesn’t crash his car and die really anticlimactically_.

Liam and Mason are already out in Liam’s SUV and waiting when Theo steps out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, having been inside checking on the status of his back, which is—between the full night’s sleep and multiple full meals—almost healed. He’s a little distracted thinking about that, and about the way that he can almost still feel the phantom pressure of Liam’s fingers against his back, and so Shohreh’s appearance in the hallway’s mouth surprises him enough that he startles.

“Sorry,” He mutters, shaking his head to clear it and giving her a rueful smile.

She just waves a dismissive hand, “You’ve had an eventful twenty-four hours.”

She could mean Scott’s kidnapping and Theo’s really hare-brained rescue, and to a certain extent she undoubtedly _does_ , but most of what she’s referring to—grinning slyly at him—is his interlude with Liam in the entryway last night. Coloring, Theo opens his mouth, realizes only after he’s done so that he can’t think of anything to say, and closes it again.

“I wanted to thank you,” She tells him after she’s purposefully let him stew in the awkward silence for a few seconds.

Theo frowns at her, “For...what?”

“For stopping a war, or worse,” She answers bluntly and Theo stares at her, shocked, “Whatever the merits of your methods—” The rest of the packs had been filled in on Theo’s former double-agent status last night, “—if Monroe had been allowed to collar Scott, and turn him against the rest of us, the sun would have risen on a much different kind of day today.”

Now Theo _really_ doesn’t know what to say, “I, um. I don’t...”

“Don’t strain yourself, ambassador,” She cuts him off, not unkindly, and grins wider when she sees his brow furrow at the moniker, “What? You think we all don’t know how Scott managed to become a political savant in the space of a few measly months?”

Whatever expression Theo’s face is making must be pretty comical, because Shohreh laughs, loudly and delightedly at whatever she sees. Still chuckling under her breath, she steps forward and takes his face between her hands and presses a kiss to his forehead, just like she’d done earlier with Scott

“Go on,” She tells him quietly as she releases him, “Your friends are waiting.”

Still feeling more than a little whiplashed from the unexpected interaction, Theo hesitates for a few seconds and then smiles, finally, nods. Shohreh nods back, and Theo starts to step away, is halfway to the front door when Shohreh calls his name.

“You’ve helped Mr. McCall clean up Monroe’s mess, and Argent has taken that bracelet off your wrist, now,” She says, and Theo’s confused until he remembers standing in her ranch house across from her a few weeks ago, the photograph of Ailene and Anthony Storo that she’d given him in his hands as she’d said almost the same thing, “Come back and see me sometime.”

“Okay,” Theo answers quietly after a long few seconds, and smiles back at her when she smiles at him, and then he goes to meet Liam and Mason for the long drive back to Beacon Hills.

It’s already dark by the time that Liam rolls open Theo’s apartment door, Theo’s arm around his shoulders because—and only because—Liam had insisted, loudly and without budging _at all_ , until Theo gave up and let him pull it there, help him inside. He struggles a little with the door when he goes to roll it back shut, awkwardly twisted to try and both close and lock it _and_ hold onto Theo, and Theo looks away to humor him, and winds up looking out into the rest of the—the rest of _his_ —apartment.

It’s still depressingly bare, and spartan, but the plant— _Phil_ —in Theo’s window is vibrantly green, and the couch Liam browbeat Derek into helping him rescue from the renovating Taylors is sat next to the abandoned futon, the scratched-up salvaged coffee table between them. Theo feels his chest clench as he takes it all in, his pulse skip.

“The hell was that?” Liam demands, sounding alarmed; his head whips around to peer at Theo suspiciously, his eyes narrowed.

But Theo just grins, and turns so he can press his forehead against Liam’s, can hear the dopey tone to his own voice as he answers, “You’ve been trying to bribe me. With couches, and silverware, and a _plant_.”

Liam colors—Theo can see it, as well as feel it, the skin of Liam’s cheeks going hot against his own—and Liam jostles him in as good an approximation he can get of a shove while still holding onto Theo to balance him, “Yeah, well, maybe if you weren’t such a failure at _self-reflection_ —”

He probably would have kept going on in that vein, except Theo tips his head to close the last few remaining inches between them and kisses him. Liam hums, partly in surprise, partly in annoyance, but kisses him back, and Theo slowly reels him in, draws him back step by step until his own back hits the wall, Liam pressed up against his chest.

Almost instantly Liam rips himself backwards, glares balefully at him, “No. _No_. You’re still injured, and—”

“No, I’m not,” Theo cuts him off, and kisses him again, doesn’t let Liam pull away when he tries, just snags one of Liam’s hands in his own and brings it back and then up and under his shirt so that Liam can feel for himself; no puncture wounds.

“Oh,” Liam says, and then his fingers curl against Theo’s skin, digging in, Theo sucking in a huge, surprised breath as the move sends shivers up his spine, and Liam breathes, “ _Oh_ ,” again, and surges forward into him.

The move knocks his head back against the wall but Theo couldn’t care less, just yanks Liam harder against himself and opens his mouth to Liam’s questing tongue, groans as Liam presses forward just as hard, the two of them now pressed tightly together from thigh to chest. Panting some, Theo drops his hands away from Liam’s shoulders so that he can slide his fingers up underneath Liam’s shirt, scratch at his bare back. Liam bites off a high-pitched whine, his hips bucking against Theo’s own, and Theo has to bite off his _own_ noise, dig his fingers harder into Liam’s skin.

He hadn’t precisely meant it as an invitation—it’d really been more of a reflex—but Liam still takes it as one, pulls back just enough to get his own hands around his shirt’s hem, yank it up and over his head. _Oh_ , Theo thinks, catching Liam’s wild eyes for a moment before Liam surges back into him, and Theo takes full advantage, running his hands all across the revealed expanse of Liam’s back, the bumps of his spine and the curves of his ribs.

But it’s not _enough_ , and so eventually Theo moves, pressing forward just enough that he can get the room he needs to flip them, press Liam back against the wall instead. Liam hisses when the cold—and rough—brick hits his bare back but it doesn’t slow him down in the slightest. Far from it, he uses his new position to drag Theo’s hips harder against his own, hold them there as he grinds against him.

It distracts Theo enough from their ongoing kiss that he has to break it, has to bury his face in Liam’s bare shoulder and muffle a series of low, desperate cries as each roll of Liam’s hips drives a spike of pure pleasure up his spine. Liam takes advantage of _that_ , too, uses Theo’s momentary lapse in concentration to shove Theo’s jacket off his shoulders—Theo reaching back at the last moment to catch it before it can drop unceremoniously to the ground, his mind snapping to the photos in his pocket, before tossing it much more carefully so that it lands flat nearby—and then to wind his fingers in Theo’s hem, tug it up and over Theo’s head.

They both gasp when Theo leans back into him once its gone, chests now skin to skin, Liam’s head tilting back as he stares sightlessly up at the ceiling and pants, Theo surging forward as he does so to get his teeth around the tendon the movement reveals. Liam cries out and his hips snap against Theo’s, his hard cock dragging against Theo’s own even through two layers of denim, and Theo bites off his own cry, drops his hands to Liam’s hips to encourage him to do it again.

“Wait, wait,” Liam suddenly gasps out, pushing Theo away from him with both hands flat on Theo’s bare chest.

For a moment Theo worries that he’s done something wrong, but Liam doesn’t look pissed off, or freaked out—he looks _turned on_. _Unbearably_ so, and Theo’s about to ask, his mind so hazed with arousal and relief and not a little irritation—what the _hell_ , Liam—and then Liam takes one hand off his chest and twists around, reaching into his back pocket as he does so.

He comes up with his wallet, of all things, and now Theo is _really_ about to ask _what the hell_ , except that Liam surges forward into him just as suddenly as he’d pushed him away, and Theo’s confused noise gets swallowed by Liam’s mouth. Distracted as he is by the kiss, he can still feel Liam’s shoulders moving under his hands as Liam apparently opens his wallet and fumbles through it for something, and then there’s a dull _thunk_ —Liam’s wallet hitting the ground—and Liam presses whatever he’d retrieved into one of Theo’s hands.

Theo stops kissing him to look down at it, certain that his original instinct couldn’t have been right.

“Is this... _lube_?” He demands, staring down at the innocuous little white packet before switching to stare at Liam instead.

“Yeah, so, what,” Liam replies, all in a rush, his hands back on Theo’s chest and greedily exploring, Theo having to suck in a sharp breath as Liam scratches over his pecs, his ribs, “They had a bowl of them during our sex ed class.” Then he stops and squints shrewdly at Theo, his hands pausing low— _low_ —on Theo’s abdomen, “Why, you complaining?”

Theo feels his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t really get a chance to make a clever remark, because Liam finishes dropping his questing hands to where he’d probably been headed all along, his palm cupping Theo through his pants. Gasping out a moan, Theo snaps a hand out against the wall to brace himself—the hand with the lube, fittingly enough—as Liam grinds the heel of his hands against Theo’s hard cock, grinning all the while.

“I just—don’t get the sense that you’re complaining,” Liam continues innocently, and Theo manages to open his eyes to glare at him, though the effect is undercut somewhat by his uneven, panting breathing.

He’s working himself up to say something equally clever back, something biting and up to his usual par of incisive commentary, except that Liam takes that moment to grin widely for a long, breath-catching moment, and then he drops to his knees. _Oh, jesus_ , Theo thinks wildly as he stares down at Liam, the pleasure in his gut winding even tighter just at the visual, let alone what it previews.

He has to consciously stop himself from squeezing the little lube packet in his hand hard enough to pop it when Liam reaches forward and gets his pants undone, has to slam his other hand flat against the wall and clench it when Liam slides his zipper down. There’s no stopping the desperate groan that leaves his mouth when Liam hooks his fingers into Theo’s briefs and the tops of his jeans and starts slowly dragging them down, though, his hips bucking helplessly when Liam carefully lifts them over his straining cock.

Once Liam has them all the way down, he taps each of Theo’s ankles in turn to get him to lift them, finishes pulling his pants off before tossing them away—somewhere. Watching in desperate, held-breath anticipation, Theo stares down at Liam as he refocuses on Theo, as he gets a hand around the base of Theo’s cock and then tips his head up to grin cheekily at him.

And then he leans forward, and takes Theo in his mouth, and Theo moans, loudly and helplessly.

Almost instantly he has to lock his knees at the absolute _surge_ of pleasure that goes bolting through him, and Liam hums encouragingly, drops his hands to Theo’s minutely trembling thighs and rubs his hands up and down them; it’s meant to be comforting, probably, and it _is_ , but it also ratchets the pleasure in Theo’s gut up several notches.

“Liam, _jesus_ ,” Theo pants out, leaning heavily on his hands, and then he groans, can’t help it, has to drop one—the one _not_ holding the packet of lube—and bury it in Liam’s hair.

He doesn’t pull, or push, or try to control, he just holds on; a grounding point. Liam seems to get it, brings one of his own hands up and runs his fingers lightly across the outside of Theo’s forearm while his other goes to Theo’s hip, helps hold him steady as Liam starts to bob his head. Theo gives up on thinking about anything else after that—the stupid packet of lube that he’s trying desperately not to crush, the rough brick under his palm, the smooth slide of Liam’s hair through his fingers—and just focuses on the pleasure winding tighter and tighter in his gut, his toes starting to curl against the bare wood floor.

Except that _just_ as Theo is about to press against Liam’s shoulder, warn him back, Liam suddenly pulls _all_ the way back, and Theo gasps out a wordless protest, drops his head down to stare at him, wide-eyed and confused.

Liam just gives him a dry look, “What, you think I gave you that lube for no reason?”

It takes a few seconds for Liam’s meaning to fully sink in, and then Theo has to swallow back a choked moan, his hips jerking helplessly. Liam grins at him, wide and so obviously pleased with himself, and then he leans forward, bites at the skin and muscle low on Theo’s abdomen. Hissing out a not-entirely-annoyed sound, Theo glares down at him as Liam leans back and then rises to his feet, drags his hands up Theo’s thighs and ribs as he goes.

“You,” Theo tells him, voice low and heated and enough to make Liam’s pupils dilate with a sharp breath, “are kind of an asshole.”

Liam grins and kisses him, quick and wet and dirty, says, “Let’s see if that’s still what you think in a little while.”

That’s a challenge if Theo has ever heard one, and he’s _more_ than willing—eager, even—to take Liam up on it. Pressing Liam back into the wall with an equally wet, and equally dirty, but significantly _longer_ kiss, he drops his hands to Liam’s pants, starts working on getting them undone. As aloof as he’d been trying to act, Liam still can’t help gasping and bucking into Theo’s hands as Theo gets him unbuttoned and unzipped, as Theo hooks his fingers in the tops of Liam’s jeans and briefs and gets them pulled down; Theo does all of it with the packet of lube still in one hand, which he’s beginning to think he deserves some kind of medal for.

Grinning at the ridiculous thought, ignoring Liam’s confused _what?_ , Theo finishes dragging his pants off his hips, helps balance Liam as he steps out of them. He doesn’t stop once he’s done that, though, just continues stepping back, back, Liam following his mouth thoughtlessly, and only halts when he feels the edge of the abandoned futon against the backs of his knees. Then, grinning even wider, he turns them quickly so that Liam’s back is to the futon instead and shoves him over.

Liam hits the futon with an _oof_ and glares up at him, though the fact that he his eyes keep dropping to Theo’s hard cock doesn’t help his case. Smirking down at him, Theo leaves him where he is for a moment and leans down, gets one hand under the bottom of the futon frame so that he can yank it up, out—some of his supernatural strength engaging considering he’s also moving _Liam_ —until the futon slides flat. Liam gives a slightly undignified flail as it reorients and then crashes onto his back.

“Okay, now _you’re_ the asshole,” He tells Theo grouchily, though he makes no move to sit up.

“Yeah?” Theo asks, and tosses the little packet of lube next to Liam’s head, gets a knee on one side of Liam’s hips, then another as he leans over above him on all-fours, “That so?”

Liam’s eyes go wide as he stares up at him, and his _uh, yeah, it is_ , is _patently_ unconvincing; Theo laughs quietly and captures his mouth in a kiss and flattens himself out on top of Liam, finally, _finally_ , nothing at all between them.

The effect on Liam is instantaneous; his hips buck up into Theo’s, his hard cock grinding against Theo’s own, and he moans, loud and shamelessly, right into Theo’s mouth. Theo groans and gets his hands around Liam’s head, holds it steady as Theo licks deeper, as deep as he can, into Liam’s mouth, his hips working against Liam’s own.

But after a long few minutes of that, Theo pulls back and tells him, as if their previous conversation hadn’t been interrupted at all, “I just figured it was time I claim this thing as my own, you know?,” low and heated and just _dripping_ with meaning.

Liam’s breath catches—Theo can feel it in the stutter of Liam’s chest against his own—and then he snorts out a helpless laugh and smacks Theo in the shoulder in a clear _smooth, real smooth_ , before leaning up to kiss him again. Theo’s smiling just as helplessly as he follows Liam back down, as he runs a hand up the leg Liam bends and presses against his side, as he slowly gets his hips rolling against Liam’s once again.

He focuses on those things, on getting Liam as wrapped up in and distracted by the feel of Theo’s fingers clenched around his thigh, by Theo’s hips and his hard cock sliding against Liam’s own, by Theo’s mouth, as he can, and then he reaches his right hand forward, finds the little packet of lube next to Liam’s head. Liam must feel the shift in Theo’s shoulders, though, his balance, because he bites off a high-pitched noise and breaks the kiss, turns his head to look at it.

When he catches sight of it he shudders, a full-body _shiver_ that shakes through Theo, too, Theo dropping his head to Liam’s shoulder and moaning. Dropping his attempt at distraction, urgency now singing through his own blood, Theo brings the packet up and over Liam’s head so he can get his other hand on it, rip it open.

“Jesus. Jesus, Theo,” Liam pants as hears it tear, his eyes closing and his legs squeezing around Theo’s hips.

“I know. I know, Liam,” Theo replies nonsensically, presses short, biting kisses to Liam’s neck as his fingers fumble with the packet, as he gets a healthy amount of it squeezed out onto the fingers of his right hand, uses his thumb to spread it around.

Theo hasn’t even _touched_ him yet and Liam is already groaning, his head arched back in anticipation and his hands—the very tips of his fingers feeling just the slightest bit sharper than normal—clenching and unclenching around Theo’s shoulders, his back. Burying his face in the side of Liam’s neck with a helpless moan, Theo brings his slicked hand down, doesn’t even have to encourage Liam to open up for him; Liam drops his left leg open wide before Theo can say a word.

Liam bucks, and bucks _hard_ , when Theo touches the tip of one finger to Liam’s entrance. Hissing at the sensation—Liam’s hard cock sliding against his own—Theo drops the edge of his hip down to pin Liam’s, hold him steady as Theo slowly, slowly slides his first finger inside. Liam gasps and groans and twists as Theo starts to move it, stretching him out, but between Theo’s weight across his chest and Theo’s hip pinning him down, he can’t move much of anywhere, though his constant squirming starts to drive Theo _nuts_ and Theo moans, presses a second finger to Liam’s entrance in silent question.

“Yes, _god_ , what are you waiting for?” Liam snaps, his irritated tone belied by the way his fingers dig harder into Theo’s skin.

Swallowing another moan, Theo presses in, drives his hip down harder to hold Liam steady as Liam lets out a breathy _oh_ and freezes, his back bowed in as much of an arch as it can, his heels slipping against the fabric of the futon. Theo works him, paying attention to every sound and every twitch Liam makes, and knows he’s hit what he’d been looking for when Liam cries out and bucks hard enough to actually dislodge Theo a bit.

“That, that,” Liam pants out, wide-eyed, demands, “Do that again.”

Theo grins—this is one order of Liam’s he doesn’t mind following—and hits that spot again, and again, Liam giving a series of high-pitched, bitten-off cries each time. In the middle of that he adds a third finger, Liam so worked up he barely notices the added stretch, his hands coming up to clutch at the back of Theo’s head, his flexing shoulders.

“Okay, okay,” He finally gasps, “Enough with the fingers, c’mon.”

Theo smirks at him and bites at his bottom lip, murmurs, “Someone’s impatient,” though he’s withdrawing his fingers and reaching for the little lube packet even as he says it.

But Liam apparently finds the comment enough of an affront that he pauses in his frantic squirming to give Theo a _particularly_ unimpressed look, “If you think I’ve been _impatient_ , you have _really_ not been paying attention the last few months.”

And _that_ comment causes Theo to freeze, even with his right hand sticky with lube and his cock throbbing. He stares at Liam, wide-eyed, and Liam glares back, and then his expression spasms with—with _something_ —and softens, and he brings his hands up, cups them around Theo’s face and draws him down into a slow, careful kiss.

“Hey, whatever,” He tells Theo once he’s let him pull back, though he keeps hold of his face, “Patience is a virtue, right?”

“Right,” Theo replies automatically, still off-kilter, and Liam leans up and kisses him again.

And then he kicks the back of his heel against the small of Theo’s back in a pointed reminder of what they’d _been_ doing, and adds, “Maybe not right _now_ , though.”

He grins up at Theo after he says it and Theo can’t help but laugh quietly; can’t help but duck down and cover Liam’s mouth in a deep, wet kiss. They both groan as the movement brings their hips back into full contact, and that’s it; that knocks out the last of Theo’s momentary swell of uncertainty. Reaching down with his slick hand, Theo gets his cock coated with the last of the lube, then holds himself steady as he positions himself at Liam’s entrance, starts to press in.

“Oh,” Liam breathes as he slips past the initial resistance, then, “ _oh_ ,” again, louder and with his head arching back as Theo continues to press further and further inside.

Liam’s legs come up almost instantly, wrapping around Theo’s waist and holding tight as Theo finally bottoms out with his own groan. Panting, Theo buries his face in Liam’s neck, one hand still clenched in the fabric of the futon above Liam’s head, the other holding Liam’s hip steady. He waits, pleasure zinging up his spine and the muscles of his legs trembling minutely, all his focus on Liam, on the way that Liam jerks and squirms against him as he gets used to the feeling, _waiting_ for a sign, a signal.

And then he has it; Liam exhales out a huge, shaky breath and relaxes underneath him, and Theo tightens his grip on Liam’s hip, around the futon, and then he _moves_.

Liam tightens right back up with a cry but it’s a good cry—a gasped-out, helpless, out-of-his-mind with pleasure cry—and Theo feels a low rumble start up in his chest at the sound, his hips pumping harder as he tries to get Liam to make it again, and again. It doesn’t take him long to find that spot inside of Liam, Liam giving an even louder cry and his hands—tipped with just the slightest hint of sharp claws—tightening with bruising force into the muscles of Theo’s shoulders, his hips doing the same around Theo’s hips.

Groaning and doubling his efforts, Theo brings both hands down to Liam’s hips, gets them tilted up so that he can drive harder down into him, bottoming out on every thrust. Liam’s hands fall away from his shoulders when he does, land and twist tightly in the fabric of the futon on either side of his body as he holds on, as he works his own hips up to meet Theo’s.

Theo knows the instant Liam’s orgasm starts to creep up on him, can feel it in the way that the muscles of Liam’s abdomen against his own start to clench. He can certainly feel it in the way that Liam starts to _tighten_ around him, the added pleasure of it enough to cause Theo’s rhythm to stutter before he grits his teeth and recovers it, pressing his mouth to the bare skin of Liam’s collarbone as he groans.

Forcing himself to focus, he takes his still-slick hand off of Liam’s hip, brings it between their bodies so that he can wrap a hand around Liam’s cock, start pumping it in time with his thrusts. Liam’s mouth opens in a startled _‘O’_ and he gives a harsh cry, and one that increases in volume as Theo’s tight grip and hard thrusts apparently push him over, and he starts to come.

The instant he does Theo has to release his hold on Liam’s cock, has to slam both hands away from Liam’s hips and clench them in the fabric of the futon as Liam tightens around him, and sends his own orgasm roaring over him. Gasping, he gives a few more erratic, quick thrusts and then stills, pressed up as deep as he can get inside Liam, their hips flush.

“Holy shit,” Liam breathes, his legs falling limply away from Theo’s hips, “Holy—holy shit.”

“Holy shit,” Theo agrees shakily, and then presses one hand to Liam’s side in silent warning before he slowly, carefully starts to withdraw.

Once he’s slid free, he lets himself collapse onto his side, rolls over onto his back, close enough to Liam that their sweat-slick shoulders are touching. They lay there panting next to each other for a minute or so, and then Liam’s fingers creep over until they find Theo’s, thread through them and squeeze. Expression spasming some at the feeling, Theo hesitates for half a second and then gives into the urge, rolls over until he’s half-covering Liam with his own body and buries his face in Liam’s neck. Liam startles a bit at the sudden movement but settles almost immediately, turns his face into Theo’s hair and brings his free hand over to clasp the back of Theo’s skull, holding him there.

They lay there for a long time, long enough that Theo’s galloping pulse—quick both from the sex and from...from _the rest of it_ —settles, Liam’s doing the same underneath him. Finally Liam shifts away a bit so that he can look at Theo, eyes easy and steady and searching his face. Theo has no idea what he’s looking for, and his initial urge is to turn his face farther into Liam’s shoulder, hide it, but—the urge passes, and he turns his face further towards Liam instead, lets him look his fill.

Then Liam grins, wide and cheeky, “So, what’s the verdict? Am I still an asshole?”

Theo squints at him, confused, and then all at once remembers Liam’s flippant comment from earlier—right after he’d driven Theo _to the edge of orgasm_ with his ridiculous mouth and then _stopped_ —and he rolls his eyes, pushes himself to his feet.

“Yes,” He tells Liam in all honesty, but he’s smiling as he says it, and Liam’s only response is to cackle delightedly.

His eyes _do_ keep falling to Theo’s spent cock, though, so Theo’s willing to count it as a win.

“C’mon,” Theo tells him, and offers him a hand up, “We should go shower.”

He pulls Liam up and into him when Liam takes his hand, though, kisses him slow and deep and lingering. Liam moans quietly against his mouth but there’s no urgency to it, and Theo lets him go after a long minute, pushes him gently towards the stairs.

“Shower,” He repeats pointedly, and prods at Liam’s stationary chest when Liam doesn’t move.

Liam just makes a face, knocks his hand away, “Yeah, got it, Captain Clean-Freak. Head up, I’ll be there in a minute.”

Theo frowns at him, “And you’ll be doing what during that minute?”

“Watering Phil,” Liam answers cheerfully, and dances out of the way when Theo rolls his eyes and goes to grab him.

Leaving Liam to his amateur botany, Theo starts to head for the stairs. Then he stops, remembering, and after a moment’s hesitation walks barefoot and naked back over to the door, picks up his jacket from where he’d carefully tossed it flat. Running a hand over the pocket with the photos, Theo breathes out a sigh of relief when he feels them still flat and undamaged, and drapes it over his arm.

Then he gathers up the rest of the clothes scattered around—his and Liam’s both—and takes them with him when he heads upstairs.

He leaves their clothes in a lopsided pile by the side of the air mattress and drapes his jacket over the loft railing, then steps into the bathroom, gets the hot water started. Liam appears just as Theo’s testing the temperature, presses himself up against Theo’s back and wraps his arms around Theo’s waist, burying his face between Theo’s shoulderblades. Theo’s about to make a joke, something about Liam being a werewolf and not a were-octopus, maybe, but something in the quality of the silence—in Liam’s stillness—stops him.

“Don’t—don’t do that again,” Liam suddenly orders him, and Theo frowns, lifts Liam’s arms away from himself so that he can turn and look at him; Liam drops his arms back around Theo’s waist immediately once he has.

“Do what?” Theo asks, and is surprised by how—gentle his own voice sounds.

But Liam just frowns and burrows forward into Theo’s chest, Theo catching him with a slightly started _oof_.

“You know what,” Liam mutters, and just tightens his arms, resisting, when Theo tries to pry him off so that he can look at his face, repeats, “You _know_ what.”

Theo—isn’t sure he does. But as he gives up and drapes his arms around Liam’s shoulders, presses his face against the top of Liam’s head, maybe—maybe he does.

“Okay,” Theo tells him finally, quietly, and doesn’t try to hide when Liam pulls back to look at him, search his face.

Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he smiles shakily after a few seconds and leans forward, kisses Theo, close-mouthed and quick, but _warm_ , “Okay.”

Theo means to get them in and out of the shower quickly, he _does_ ; they’re both exhausted from the events of the last few days _and_ the near-seven hour drive. But he can’t help himself, not with Liam naked, and close, and wet, and _grinning_ sleepily at him; not when his only response to Theo running tentative fingers over his rapidly-hardening cock is to laugh quietly and press forward into Theo’s grip.

Theo gets him off again, leaned back against the shower wall with his tongue in Liam’s mouth and his chest pressed to Liam’s own. He groans when Liam comes, brings both hands up to Liam’s face and kisses him harder, and almost staggers when Liam suddenly reverses their position, gets Theo pressed up against the wall instead. After that he just hangs onto Liam’s shoulders, gasping and moaning as Liam works him; as Liam holds him steady against the wall as he comes, too.

They’re both stumbling-tired by the time they step out of the shower, the two of them wrapping themselves in the only two towels Scott had given Theo in his initial set of supplies. Liam makes a face when he recognizes them.

“Okay, first order of business on the congratulations-you-finally-pulled-your-head-out-of-your-ass list? You are getting _real household necessities_ ,” Liam tells him.

Theo just rolls his eyes, throws his towel in Liam’s face specifically for the yelp he makes when it hits as he says, “Fine, whatever. _Tomorrow_.”

Contrary to the comment Liam no doubt wants to make as they step back out into the loft, Theo _does_ actually have more than two sets of clothes, and he pulls out a pair of his extra sweats from his duffel bag for Liam as he retrieves his own. The fact that they’re in his duffel bag at all—no dresser or set of drawers in sight—earns him a dry look, but—whatever. Theo’s acknowledged the point, even if only in his own head; like Liam said, there’s a _list_.

Liam looks a little dubious about both of them climbing onto the air mattress but he doesn’t press the issue, probably because he’s too tired more so than because he’s actually disinterested in being a stubborn jackass. Theo’s about to slide under the covers with him when he looks at his lamp—the lamp that Liam had _given_ him, along with furniture and silverware and a _plant_ , and god, he’d been right; the last thing Liam had been was _impatient_ —and then he frowns.

“What is it?” Liam asks curiously as Theo reaches for the lamp, sends them into temporary darkness as he unscrews the bulb and tips the base over.

“This,” Theo tells him after a few seconds, after he’s screwed the bulb back into place and retrieved the thin rolled-up piece of paper from where it’d fallen.

Sitting up, Liam hooks his chin over Theo’s shoulder and reaches around Theo’s sides so that he can take the paper from Theo’s hands, unroll it. He looks over it quietly for few seconds, his heart beating steadily against Theo’s back.

“Names?” He finally asks, “Whose?”

“Druids,” Theo answers softly, “Druids who wouldn’t mind helping something like Monroe do her dirty work, as long as the pay was high enough.”

He can see Luvalle’s name on the list, feels his upper lip twist in a brief, satisfied snarl.

“I made her give these to me when she first had her people approach me, as a way to prove—prove she was serious about partnering up,” Theo explains, and feels Liam’s chin dig into his shoulder when he nods thoughtfully.

“Pretty impressive, fooling her for all those months,” He comments, offering the paper back to Theo.

Theo grimaces and starts ripping it up, tearing it into ever smaller pieces.

“What can I say,” He mutters, “I’m a good liar.”

He doesn’t realize how resentful—how bitter—he must have sounded, until Liam makes a noise and pulls back, gets a hand on his shoulder and shoves him back flat, Theo going more out of surprise than desire. When he blinks up at Liam, he’s glaring, his expression pinched and unhappy.

“Don’t act like you don’t know your own role in all this,” Liam orders him waspishly, “You know as well as I do that if you hadn’t been doing what you were doing, Scott might be under Monroe’s control now, or dead, or worse.” Then his expression softens, probably as he sees whatever Theo’s useless face is doing, “I know it doesn’t—doesn’t solve any of the rest of it, but give yourself that, at least.”

Liam flushes some after he finishes, looks away, like the strength of his own reaction had maybe caught him off-guard. His chest twisting—but not with pain, not with grief or shame or anything else he’s been carrying around these last few months—Theo sits up and slides a hand back into his hair, turns Liam’s head back forward so that he can kiss him.

Then he pulls back, rests his forehead on Liam’s for a moment before he asks, “Can I show you something?,” in a small, tentative voice.

Liam just pulls back and frowns at him, says, “Yeah, of course.”

Smiling shakily, Theo kisses him again and then slides carefully off the air mattress, pads over to his jacket hung over the railing. He hesitates once he reaches it, drops a hand over the top of it, then sucks in a huge breath and bends down until he can slide his fingers into his pocket, pull the pictures out. Then he turns and heads back to the bed, offers them to Liam while still standing, Liam sitting on the mattress and looking up at him curiously.

He seems to recognize the gravity of the offer, though; his fingers when he takes the photos are gentle, careful; the breath he sucks in when he looks at the first photo and realizes who it is, what he’s looking at, is less so. Theo can see his throat bob as he looks at the picture of Theo’s sister, runs the fingers of one hand over the scratches across its surface; realizing what they are. He looks through the rest of the photos, pausing over Josh’s, and Tracy’s, and then finally stopping on the last.

“I don’t…” He murmurs quietly, then looks up at Theo questioningly.

“Ailene and Anthony Storo,” Theo tells him, just as quietly, “The former Chemult pack alpha and his daughter, and heir.”

_Oh_ , Liam mouths silently, making the connection. Then he licks his bottom lip, pulls it between his teeth as he carefully realigns the photos and offers them back to Theo. It’s crystal clear that he wants to ask something, and either hasn’t figured out how to ask it or hasn’t made up his mind whether to ask it all, so Theo gives him a moment, goes to put the photos back in his jacket. Then he stops, and looks down at them, and considers.

And then he pads over to his duffel bag, tucks them gently, reverently, into the bag’s inside pocket.

When he turns back to the air mattress, Liam has apparently made up his mind.

“Theo, you...when we were fighting, a few days ago...” He winces when he says _fighting_ , and yeah—Theo guesses that is kind of an understatement, “You said—you said you didn’t think that anyone would ever be able to forgive you for what you’ve done. You said that _you_ couldn’t—couldn’t forgive yourself.”

He trails off, but Theo knows how his question ends.

“You want to know what changed,” He fills in, and Liam nods jerkily.

Exhaling out a heavy, slow breath, Theo lowers himself back onto the air mattress, looks over at Liam when he slides forward so that they’re sitting next to each other.

“Scott,” Theo tells him, then immediately hesitates, adds, “Or, well,” and then he stops, scrubs his hands roughly over his face, “I mean, it was kind of... _everything_. But mostly it was Scott.”

Liam reaches out with one hand so that he can thread it through Theo’s when Theo drops his hands, squeeze gently as he waits.

“After everything, while we were waiting for Argent and Malia to ride to our rescue, I showed him those. I told him—essentially what I told you,” Theo explains.

He means to keep going but his throat tightens, and he finds he can’t, immediately; turns away. Liam just shifts so that he can drop his chin on Theo’s nearest shoulder; another point of grounding.

“He said he doesn’t know what the answer is. He said he doesn’t know if there _is_ an answer,” Theo tells Liam finally, voice croaking some. But then he swallows, finishes, “But he said he wanted to help me figure it out, if I’d let him.” Theo stops, turns to look at Liam, who looks steadily back, “If I wanted to try and figure it out.”

Liam studies him for a long few seconds, his eyes heavy-lidded and his expression unreadable, his scent—level at is—a little too tangled for Theo to read in his current state. But finally Liam smiles, soft and genuine, and tips his head forward in a clear invitation. Theo stares at him for a beat, a half-second, and then he tips his forehead forward too, rests it against Liam’s own.

“I’d like to help you figure it out, too, if you’ll let me,” Liam tells him quietly, and opens his eyes slowly when Theo pulls back to look at him.

But Theo already knows there’s a helpless, wide smile breaking over his face, doesn’t try to fight it. Instead he just brings his free hand up, slides it around the back of Liam’s head so that he can gently pull him in, kiss him.

“Yeah,” Theo tells Liam when he pulls back, Liam’s smile just as wide as his, “I was kind of hoping you would.”

**Author's Note:**

> One important note: For those of you who are not supernatural creatures incapable of getting sick, having consensual relationships with _other_ supernatural creatures who can't get sick, I have one word: CONDOMS. Safe sex is best sex, y'all.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and if you liked, please consider a comment or a [reblog](https://eneiryu.tumblr.com/post/184469630560/built-a-ship-in-the-morning-but-the-hulls-worn)!


End file.
